Who's That Girl?
by TesubCalle
Summary: COMPLETE. Detective Nancy Drew of the Chicago Police Department has been officially dead for almost a year. This comes as a shock to Frank and Joe Hardy, who are almost certain they've seen her in NYC. Takes place in the W.5verse.
1. Who's That Girl?

**A/N**: Okay – so I have not read a Nancy Drew or Hardy Boys story in many a year, I am sorry to admit. So, this particular story will be lacking in many of the newer developments that have taken place over the previous decade. I have written it as I see fit, and if that bothers you, kindly consider this tale to be of the AU variety. It takes place a few years after those lovely CaseFiles I was so fond of...

**Who's That Girl?**

By TesubCalle

Ch. 1

"Frank, who does that waitress remind you of?"

Blonde, twenty-something Joe Hardy was addressing his older brother. The hostess of a small bistro in New York's Greenwich Village had just seated the pair, and for a moment, Joe thought he had spotted a familiar face.

"Which one?" Frank asked, looking up from his menu.

Dark-haired and older than Joe by a year, Frank quickly cast his eyes around the room.

"Um, you can't see her now...It was an impression, really," Joe responded. "She had similar facial features and the same body-type as Nancy Drew. Wait, here she comes. I think she's going to be our server."

A slim, attractive young white woman wearing a light pink blouse and black slacks approached the Hardys. She had an inviting smile on her face that radiated warmth and intelligence. Something flickered across her blue eyes for a moment when she saw them. The smile disappeared for a split second, but then quickly returned.

Frank noticed that her hair length, just past the jaw-line, was dark blonde with randomly placed streaks. _Not exactly the way I remember Nancy's hairstyle,_ he thought, _and she's made no indication she knows who we are – yet._ The brothers exchanged careful glances. The unspoken thought between the two of them was: _Tread carefully_.

"What can I get you fellows to start with tonight?" the waitress asked them. "Something to drink? Appetizer?"

Her mild, Mid-Western accent cemented in Joe's mind they must be speaking to their old colleague and friend.

"Oh, uh...I'll have a...Budweiser...please, miss." Joe said, aware there had been an awkward silence between the time she had asked and the time he had answered.

"The same for me, too, please," Frank said.

"Okay. Two Buds, coming up."

She swiftly turned around to fill the drink orders.

"She sure _looks_ like Nancy to me, except the hair, maybe," Joe said quietly to Frank. "But her nametag says 'Molly'."

"I agree she looks like almost exactly like Nancy. But what's she doing in New York? She hasn't said a word to either of us that she recognizes us. That's not like Nancy...She's usually happy to see us. Maybe she's on a case, and she's working incognito."

"The thought crossed my mind, too," said Joe. "If so, I wonder what it is! Been a while since we've worked on something as a team, hasn't it?"

"Yeah, it has," Frank said wistfully.

The trio had indeed worked together on several occasions, often by chance than by design. Even in those unexpected situations, they always welcomed the opportunity to use their detecting skills together. They had an impressive rate of solving crimes, bringing down even internationally wanted fugitives and criminals.

The Nancy Drew-look-alike server returned, placing mugs of Budweiser in front of the Hardys. "Here you go," she said, "two Buds."

"Pardon me, miss," Joe said, always the more impetuous of the brothers, "but you remind me an awful lot of a good friend of ours. Her name is Nancy Drew, and she's from River Heights."

He was dearly hoping this young woman would drop them a clue as to her identity; perhaps communicate to them in a secret manner that she was indeed working undercover. In the past, asking an erroneous question like the one he just had would get Nancy to give them some hints as to her current status.

"Nancy Drew, huh?" she replied with a blank look on her face. "Well, that's a new one on me. Sorry, my name is Molly, as you can tell from my nametag. But I guess we all have our own doubles out there somewhere, don't we?"

"Guess so," Joe mumbled, disappointed his ploy had failed.

'Molly' said, "I'll let you guys have a few more minutes to look through the menu, is that okay?"

"Thanks, that would be fine," Frank said, and watched her disappear around a corner booth.

"I could have sworn she was Nancy," Joe said glumly.

"I _want_ to call you an idiot for pulling that stunt," Frank admonished, "but I guess no harm was done. Gotta say, I was pretty convinced she was Nancy, too. Even the Nancy we know would have found some way to tell us she was on a case by now."

"It also wouldn't be the first time we got identities mistaken..."

Frank looked sharply at Joe. "What do you mean?"

"Just...Iola," Joe finally whispered. "I was just thinking about Iola, and how badly I wanted that other girl to be her..."

Frank softened. "I know, pal...I know."

"Do you still think there's no chance 'Molly' could be Nancy?" Joe said, quickly trying to push past his painful memories of his murdered girlfriend.

"Well, Nancy's a bright girl," Frank said. "If she's on to something big, it might require her to keep her real identity secret – even from us. And if that's the case, we really have to respect her wishes in that regard."

"You're right. Still, I'm kinda jealous! If that 'Molly' _is_ Nancy, and she's here trying to solve a case, I want in on it, too."

"I feel the same way you do, pal. But we're not in New York to work. We're here for fun. Now, do you know what you're going to have, or do I have to order for you?"

Joe grinned and picked up his menu.

"Are you guys ready to order now?"

A new voice made the Hardys jump. The brothers looked up and instead of the Nancy look-alike, a pretty petite young black woman with expressive eyes that would never need mascara stood before them. Her nametag said 'Yolanda'.

"I didn't mean to startle you," she said apologetically. Her voice was definitely that of a New York native.

"Er – what happened to Molly?" Joe asked.

"Molly? Oh, I'm sorry about that. She had to leave in a hurry. She told the manager she hasn't been feeling well all day." Yolanda said. "Guess she finally couldn't take it anymore and went home."

"I see," Joe said. "That's too bad. Hope she gets better soon."

"Yolanda, can you tell me how long Molly's been working here?" Frank asked.

"Coupla months, maybe...Not more than that, I don't think," Yolanda replied, after thinking for a few moments.

The brothers eyed each other surreptitiously. Was it a mere coincidence that 'Molly' had taken off as quickly as she had?

"So...Do you fellas know what you're eating tonight or do you need more time?" Yolanda asked.

"I'll take the baked ravioli." Frank said absently, his mind still preoccupied with the sudden departure of 'Molly'.

"Me, too," Joe said.

"Two baked raviolis, then," Yolanda said, and cleared their menus away as she left to place their orders in the kitchen.

"Something's up," Frank said quietly to his brother.

"You don't have to tell me twice," Joe responded. "I just wish I knew what it was..."

* * *

The young woman who called herself 'Molly' was having a hard time controlling her breathing. She could feel her heart pounding, and even in the cool Fall air, beads of perspiration were forming on her brow. She struggled with the keys to her vehicle; a third or possibly fourth-hand Toyota. Driving as speedily as she dared (she certainly didn't need the police to stop her tonight) she tried to calm herself. 'Molly' desperately wished the two gentlemen she encountered in the bistro had never walked in.

When she reached her destination, a rather shabby-looking building with a perennially out-of-service elevator, 'Molly' dashed up two flights of stairs to the inside of her own apartment and grabbed the telephone. She dialled a private number she knew by heart, at last feeling some modicum of relief: this line, she knew, was a secure one.

"Phillips," said the voice that picked up on the other end.

"It's...Molly..." the young woman said breathlessly.

Instantly picking up on her distress, the man calling himself 'Phillips' said, "What's wrong?"

"I've got to get out, now. I've been made."

"Where?" came Phillips' calm query.

"At work. It was totally unexpected and totally unavoidable. I can't go back there now, ever. You've got to move me _now_!"

"Molly, I want you to listen to me. We'll get right on this. Sit tight and don't open the door for _anyone_, but I think you know the drill. And Molly, you did good letting me know. I'll be in touch very soon when we come up with a game plan."

The connection was broken. 'Molly' stared at the receiver for a few moments, then placed it gently on the cradle. It had taken all of her control not to slam it down. She wanted to scream; hit something; kick something. Everything had been going relatively okay in this city – until tonight. And now, she would have to be on the run again. The irony was, the two people who could probably be the most helpful to her in any situation were the ones responsible for her present dilemma. It made 'Molly' want to cry tears of frustration.


	2. Unlikely Story

**A/N: First, thanks to all you folks who reviewed chapter 1. Second, I've put my creative foot down. 'Who's That Girl' is indeed going to be an A/U. You'll see why when this chapter gets underway.**

**Standard disclaimers regarding ownership of characters apply to the entirety of this fic.**

Chapter 2.

In the privacy of their hotel, Frank and Joe reviewed the encounter with the waitress who had identified herself as 'Molly'. After their meal of baked ravioli, they had spoken with the restaurant manager, Greta Forzani. She was initially reluctant to reveal details, but the Hardys had pressed Greta for information about the woman they were convinced was Nancy Drew. Luck was on their side, as Greta had heard of their exploits as amateur detectives, and now as internationally acclaimed private investigators. She willingly revealed to them that she had hired 'Molly' without the benefit of references.

"Normally, I don't do nothing like that. I don't hire nobody if they can't prove no past work experience. All she told me was that her name was Molly Jenkins and that she had just had a bad break-up with her boyfriend. Said she was lookin' for a place to start over."

At these words, Frank's heart had inexplicably leapt (_she broke up with Nickerson_?) - and then quickly sank. Something about that story 'Molly' had told Greta just did not ring true. Nancy Drew, running off to New York because she broke off her relationship with Ned Nickerson? To be a _waitress,_ of all things? Changing her name and pretending not to know them? No. Something was clearly wrong with that picture.

"Molly struck me a deal: she'd work here for a week or so with no pay as a kind of trial run. If I liked how she handled herself, I'd take her on for real. If not, she'd look for employment elsewhere," Greta had continued.

"And you liked how she handled herself, I gather," Frank had said.

"You got that right, honey," the manager had given Frank a flirty smile. "Don't know what her problem was tonight, though. Tore outta here like a bat outta hell. Something about not feeling well. I'll be docking her pay for that stunt. Can't get no one to cover her on such short notice. But Yolanda and the others will handle the load just fine."

"Ms. Forzani, when Molly recovers from her little illness, would you please ask her if she would contact us at this cell number?" Frank pulled out his business card.

"Sure, honey," she said with a solicitous smile, as she took the slip of high-quality paper that contained the Hardy's private investigative business information.

"Well, thank you for your time, Ms. Forzani," Joe had said, extending his hand. "We really appreciate it."

"Oh, you're welcome, honey," she then said, sending him a wink as she held on to his hand a little longer than was necessary. "You fellas come back again sometime, you hear?"

* * *

"We both know that 'Molly' recognized us tonight," Frank said as he sat on the edge of his hotel room bed. "I saw it in her face. That story that Molly told Greta doesn't hold water."

Joe nodded. "So we both agree then: we think 'Molly' is none other than Nancy Drew. Right?"

"And Nancy's in trouble," Frank concurred. "That's the only logical explanation to what happened tonight."

"Yeah, but why would she run when she saw us?" Joe questioned. "And run out she did, because she quite clearly was _not_ sick. I know it's been a few years since we've been in touch, but she's got to know we're on her side. She _knows_ we can help her if something's wrong."

"Five years." Frank said, somewhat absently.

"What?" Joe asked, a puzzled look on his face.

"It's been five years since we last heard anything from Nancy."

"Wow," Joe said, mulling this over, eyebrows raised. "It doesn't seem that long."

"Remember, she'd joined up with the Chicago Police Department. She said she finally wanted to go the route of detective in an official law enforcement capacity."

Joe nodded. "Of course I remember."

"I've never been comfortable with the fact that we have not kept in touch..."

"Frank-" Joe tried to cut in.

"It's just that if we'd maintained an open channel with her, we might know what's been going on in her life."

"Fine," Joe agreed. "But we all have our own lives to live. When we're not out there on a case, which is seldom, we're in Bayport. Up until tonight, we assumed Nancy was in Chicago. While it's not as if she's on the moon, it's still far away from home. Good friends lose contact. It's a fact of life."

Frank glowered.

"Okay, what do you suggest we do, then?" Joe asked.

"Cut short our vacation and get to the bottom of this," Frank said with authority in his voice.

"I was afraid you were going to say that," Joe said. He also sensed Frank's intentions went a little bit beyond concern that would be reserved simply for friends. _You always did have a thing for Miss Drew, didn't you?_

While the brothers were fully confident that Nancy Drew had been posing as a waitress named 'Molly Jenkins' in a non-descript bistro in New York, they wanted to be absolutely certain before they launched an investigation. While it didn't seem likely, there might still be a logical explanation for everything that had happened. They decided to make a discreet inquiry with the Chicago Police Department as to Nancy's current whereabouts. If they were denied information on that front, Frank decided he would next attempt to contact Nancy's father, Carson Drew, as a last resort.

"I still don't know what Nancy, as a member of the CPD would be doing in New York, even if it was an undercover assignment," Joe muttered, as Frank attempted to access the precinct he knew to be Nancy's. "She'd have no jurisdiction."

Frank waved his brother into silence, as he had reached a sleepy-sounding desk sergeant in the North Chicago Department. He identified himself as per the required procedure for a licensed private investigator.

"I'd like confirmation as to the whereabouts of one of your officers, please," Frank said to the sergeant, named Garrison.

"Who'd you wanna know about?" Garrison lazily asked, stifling a yawn.

"One Nancy Drew."

"Detective Nancy Drew?"

Frank thought he heard a note of incredulity in the sergeant's voice. "Uh, yes, I suppose I should have guessed she'd have made the ranks of detective speedily...yes, I'm looking for _detective_ Drew's current location."

"Well, your guess is as good as mine, Mr. Hardy," came sergeant Garrison's reply. "But if you want to look, our experts here figure the bottom of Lake Michigan's the most likely spot. That's where they found her car 10 months ago."


	3. If You're Going to San Francisco

**A/N:** My thanks to all those who sent enthusiastic reviews! I normally try to thank each individual via e-mail, but some of you posted Anonymously. Plus, there has been such an abundance of reviews, I am unused to such volume. So here is a blanket THANK YOU to all you cool folks. I really appreciate the encouragement. I'm hoping things won't get out of hand plot-wise, because it will mean a whole lot more writing on my part. Nevertheless, here is chapter 3, enjoy!

Chapter 3

Frank sat for a few long moments in stunned silence, feeling as if someone had delivered a sudden punch to his gut. He struggled to comprehend the implications of what Sergeant Garrison had just told him. _Nancy's car, at the bottom of Lake Michigan? Ten months ago? What on Earth happened?_

"Frank, what is it?" Joe's insistent and urgent voice broke through his brother's reverie.

"It's...they found Nancy's car in Lake Michigan ten months ago," Frank managed to say.

"What?" came the younger man's shocked response.

Sergeant Garrison's voice came through again. "Mr. Hardy, I don't know what interest you have in this case, but they pretty much closed the investigation into Detective Drew's disappearance when they pulled that blue convertible out of the lake..."

"But she – a body wasn't actually found _in_ it, was there?" Frank asked, terrified at the answer he might receive.

"Naw. No remains were found, but the top was down, so her body could've floated away. She'd been missing for two months prior to that point," Garrison said matter-of-factly. "Say, did you know her personally or something?"

_Or something..._ Frank almost couldn't stand the sergeant's tactless and seemingly blasé attitude. "Uh, yes. We got to know each other over some cases we worked on together."

"I see... Where'd you say you were calling from?" Garrison asked.

"I didn't say," Frank replied tonelessly, "but I'm in New York."

"New York, huh? Well, sorry I didn't have more positive news for you, Mr. Hardy. Good-bye."

Frank placed the receiver softly on the cradle. The silence in the room was palpable, as both brothers could not find words to express their thoughts and emotions.

It was Frank that finally spoke. "Help me out, Joe. What in _blazes_ were we doing a year ago? How could we not know that Nancy was missing and presumed dead?"

Joe, startled by his brother's sudden angry outburst, took a few moments to answer.

"Um, last year this time? We were...we were on that case in Australia, remember? The Outback, looking for that missing investor."

Frank remembered. Simon Wheland, an executive with an investment firm, had his family and co-workers in a panic. It had taken three months of their time to locate the man who was only supposed to have been backpacking for three weeks in the Australian Outback. When he failed to return home to his job in Los Angeles, the Hardys had been hired to find him. When they finally located him, his only explanation was that he had 'lost track of time'.

"And that stupid moron is the reason we weren't in the country when Nancy disappeared," Frank said, pounding his fist into his pillow. "That's why we never even heard about it. Nancy needed us, and we were too busy looking for an idiot who couldn't keep his timetable straight!"

"Let's not get ahead of ourselves here yet," Joe said, in a calming tone. "This is what we know so far:

A: One year ago, Nancy goes missing. B: Two months later, they find her car, but she isn't in it. C: Tonight we saw someone we're 99.9 percent sure was Nancy, even though she called herself 'Molly'. Are you thinking what I'm thinking?"

An idea was dawning in Frank's mind.

"It sounds like it could be some sort of witness protection program," Frank mused, slowly feeling hope creeping back.

"Exactly! I mean, that would explain her behaviour...wouldn't it?"

"It surely would," Frank said, with renewed vigour.

"What do you want to do about it?"

"Get ourselves down to Chicago to get some answers. Nancy needs our help, and a year is already too long for her to have gone without it."

* * *

The woman calling herself Molly Jenkins sat on a folding chair in a room that was otherwise bare. A 'safe house' it was called, and although 'Molly' knew it was for her protection, it did little to comfort her.

_Of all the small Italian bistros in the Village, and Frank and Joe had to walk into mine_, she thought miserably. New York was supposed to have been a good place to disappear; a place where once face melds into another; where one person can be just as indistinguishable as the next.

_I should have known better, _'Molly' chided herself. _I should have known that even though Frank and Joe are busy investigators, they'd pick New York as a destination for a little R 'n' R. Bayport is so close...I should have insisted on an entirely different locale._

Now, it was too late. 'Molly' knew it was only a matter of time before the Hardys began to investigate _her_ and her circumstances. And that notion terrified her more than anything else...almost.

The door to the room opened quietly, and the man 'Molly' had spoken with on the telephone earlier in the evening entered. Robert Phillips said, "Are you ready?"

'Molly' nodded. "I guess so."

"Then let's go. We'll be establishing your new identity as soon as we reach your new 'home'."

"Where is it this time?" 'Molly' asked wearily.

"San Francisco."

'Molly' sighed, and rose from the chair. Three more individuals stood in the outer hall, waiting for this departure.

"Things are going to be okay, Molly," Phillips said, trying to bring some semblance of calm to what was a very difficult upheaval.

_You don't know that!_ 'Molly' wanted to scream; _you don't know what Frank and Joe are like! _But instead she mumbled a reply that seemed to agree with Phillips' assessment of the situation.

"You'll be out of the state long before your private investigator friends even know," Phillips said.

_Which will just make them that much more determined to find out what's happened,_ 'Molly' thought bitterly, _and that very determination will get us all killed._


	4. DriveBy

**A/N: Okay, so I'm feeding you a _little_ more info in this chapter, but of course not everything. Be warned: violence contained within. Enjoy nevertheless.**

Chapter 4.

Rather than waste time looking up an address for a 'Molly Jenkins' in New York City, a search Frank instinctively felt would be futile, the Hardys instead started off from their hotel before dawn. Frank was at the wheel of a rental car, intent on driving the full 13 or so hours it would take to reach Chicago. Joe sat silently in the passenger seat, having totally relinquished driving duty after offering to share the task and being rebuffed numerous times. They were presently heading west on the I-80, and would be on that course for another 700 miles.

"I guess we're at the halfway point," Joe spoke up.

"Yeah," Frank muttered.

"Listen, Frank, I don't know what you expect to find in Chicago...but after what that Sergeant Garrison told you last night, and if we think Nancy really _is_ under protection, do you really think it's wise to start digging around? I mean, you yourself said if Nancy was into something that required her to keep her identity secret, we should respect her wishes."

"What Sergeant Garrison told me is the very reason we're going to Chicago. It sounds to me like nobody over there gives a damn about what happened to Nancy. You didn't hear him, Joe. He sounded surprised I was even asking about her. He sounded – I don't know...like if Nancy's disappearance and presumed death was like losing a shirt button: a bit of a nuisance, but not that big a deal. Something stinks. It's like someone wanted the whole thing swept under the rug – and got their way."

"Don't you think we should have spoken to Mr. Drew first?" Joe asked. "He might have information we need."

"Maybe..." Frank mused, "that actually hadn't even crossed my mind...but I don't want to involve anyone unnecessarily. If we get stonewalled in Chicago, then we'll go see him. But I just want to get down to Nancy's precinct or district or whatever, find out what she was working on, and see if we can find out what happened to her and why."

"And then?"

"And then? Then we find a way to make it safe for her to come home."

* * *

The woman who called herself 'Molly Jenkins' knew that would probably be her name for only another few hours. A new one would be awaiting her when she touched down in San Francisco. She leaned back in her airplane seat, tried to get comfortable in the reclining position. She knew that sleep wouldn't come easily. It never did anymore.

Frank and Joe Hardy would not take kindly to being told to discontinue an investigation into her situation. Even if someone from the Bureau got to them discreetly, it would only confirm to them that something terrible had happened. And knowing the Hardys, they'd stop at nothing to see that things were set right.

Stubborn.

Tenacious. That's how she thought of them now.

But also dedicated and loyal.

_Only this time what we're battling against is more than you can handle on your own_, 'Molly' thought. _The more you find out the more dangerous it will be for you; for me; for anyone else involved._

'Molly' felt tears of guilt and remorse stinging her eyes, and she quickly brushed them away. The memory of what had precipitated this nightmare was always hovering near the surface of her consciousness, hardly ever giving her a moment's peace. Even a year had not dulled its emotional impact.

_Was it really a _year_ ago?_

A little over a year ago a person named Nancy Drew had just been promoted to Detective, the newest member of her department's Homicide squad.

A little over year ago, she had been partnered with fourteen-year veteran Thomas Morrison, and the pair had been assigned to a team investigating a series of brutal murders.

A little over a year ago, she had been getting to be friends with Tom Morrison's wife, a medical examiner with the county coroner's office, Dr. Debra Gray.

A little over a year ago, she had the love of a man named Ned Nickerson.

And alittle over a year ago, all that had suddenly, tragically changed.

'Molly' turned her head towards the window, watching the tiny pinpoints of lights from cities far below, trying not to let her seatmate see her battling with her memories, memories that threatened to completely undo her...

It had been a Friday in early October. The Fall evening was warm, and cousins Bess Marvin and George Fayne had come into Chicago from River Heights to visit their old friend, Nancy Drew. They chose an outdoor café for dinner, ready to do some much-needed catching up.

"It's so good to see you guys again," Nancy said, after embracing her friends warmly and sitting down at their table.

"You look tired, Nan," Bess said in mock reproach.

"It's been a real _week_," Nancy replied wearily.

"So tell us about it," said George.

"I'm not so sure you want to hear. Doesn't make for pleasant dinner conversation."

"Come on, Nan, lay it on us. Unburden yourself," George said encouragingly.

"Yeah...we miss hearing about your cases ever since you abandoned River Heights for the excitement of Chicago's mean streets!" Bess added.

"Mean streets indeed," Nancy said ruefully. "You've heard of this serial case going on here?"

The cousins nodded gravely.

"I read his victims have all been young women with dark hair, and that he strangles them with the electrical cords he finds in their houses," George said with a shudder.

"That's right. I'm one of the detectives working on the case," Nancy said. "Or should I say _was _working on it. I guess I still might, depending on what happens with my partner, Tom Morrison."

"Why, what happened?" Bess asked, concern crossing her face.

Nancy looked very solemn for a few moments. "This hasn't been an easy case at all, and we brought in the Feds recently to lend us a hand. It's an ugly case. There have been six women killed in and around the Chicago area, and today, unfortunately, we found a seventh."

"Oh, no!" Bess said in a small gasp.

"The most horrible part is who this seventh victim was..."

"Well, who was it?" George asked.

"It was Tom's wife, Debra. And now they've taken him off the case."

"Because they think he'll be too emotionally affected by it..." George said softly. "Poor guy. How's he holding up?"

"Not so good. He lost it completely when we walked into his living room this morning. Just seeing Deb like that..." Nancy closed her eyes as if to block out the memory of it. "Anyway, the whole department is shaken by this, too. Debra was with the county medical examiner's office, and a lot of the detectives had worked with her for a number of their autopsy reports and so on. Depending on what my commander decides, I may be off the case, too. But I don't want to be left out of this one. Deb was becoming a good friend. She just didn't deserve to die like that. I want to nail the guy that did this more than anything."

"These kinds of cases are a far cry from missing jewels, kidnapped heirs, and stolen art, huh, Nan?" George asked with a hint of irony.

"It is indeed," Nancy replied wryly. "It's really putting my detective skills to the test."

"Not that we didn't have fun on some of your cases, but I'm very happy to leave these horrible serial killing cases to you, Nancy," Bess said, taking a sip of her drink.

"Okay, guys, enough depressing talk. Time for gossip! What have I been missing on the home front?"

A look of relief crossed her friends' faces.

"You will _never_ believe what's been going on," Bess started, her eyes dancing merrily.

"Hold that thought for just a minute," George said, rising from her seat. "I've just got to visit the ladies' room for a moment. So excuse me, I'll be right back!"

No sooner had George pushed her chair back did she suddenly fly forward onto the table, as if violently shoved there by an unseen force. At that exact instant, Nancy heard the squeal of tires and several popping noises – a sound alarmingly familiar to her ears. Immediately she knew that someone was firing a weapon at them!

"Get down!" Nancy screamed, just as she heard Bess cry out. Dropping to her knees, Nancy had a vague impression of a dark sedan speeding past them in the street, the tinted driver's side window rolled partway down; the successive flashes of a muzzle. Glass was flying about, and Nancy tried to shield her face from the debris.

Frightened screams from other patrons filled the night air, until the sound of the shots died away and the roar of the engine from the speeding car faded in the distance.

A burning sensation in her left arm brought Nancy back to herself as she cautiously stood up.

She put a hand to the source of discomfort and felt the wet, shredded sleeve.

_I've been shot_, the thought registered slowly. _Oh God, what about Bess and George?_ Nancy looked wildly around. Bess lay crumpled on the ground nearby; her pretty features distorted and pained. Her upper right shoulder was stained with blood.

"_Bess!_" Nancy cried, rushing to her friend's side. "Can you hear me?"

Bess opened her eyes slowly, and through gritted teeth said, "Nan...What happened?"

"Someone shot at us. A drive-by. Don't move; you've been hit." Nancy pressed her hands to the only source of oozing blood, realizing the bullet must have struck Bess' collar bone and possibly been deflected, which would account for the lack of an exit wound.

"I think you're going to be okay, Bess," Nancy said, trying to sound calm. "Your collar bone may be broken, though."

"George..." Bess murmured weakly, "where is she?"

_George...Oh, no..._

Nancy sprang from Bess and was horrified to see George still sprawled on the tabletop, unmoving, bleeding profusely from wounds in her lower back and right shoulder blade.

_Call for paramedics!_ Nancy's more rational side shouted at her.

"You! In the white," she called out, pointing directly to a waiter standing stock-still at the entrance to the indoor section of the restaurant. "Call nine-one-one _now_! Tell them we have at least two very serious gunshot victims here that require immediate medical attention! Report back to me that they're on their way. Got it?"

The young man, jolted into action, nodded and took off.

Nancy now took another quick glance around her at the rest of the restaurant patrons. A few appeared to still be in a state of shock, huddling together, and a couple of them were crying. As a police officer, she knew one of her first priorities was to secure the scene.

"I'm a detective with the Chicago Police Department," she called out. "Please, everyone remain where you are, and remain calm. If you need medical attention, sit tight – ambulances are being dispatched. I repeat, don't leave the area!"

When Nancy saw that no one, thankfully, was defying her order, she turned her attention back to her injured friends.

George appeared to be the most gravely injured, Nancy realized with alarm. She was unconscious and unresponsive. Nancy was relieved, however, to see that her friend was still breathing, however shallow those breaths were. Pulse, weak.

_Please let those paramedics arrive soon_, Nancy prayed. She knew George could probably bleed to death in a matter of minutes if a major blood vessel had been struck. But it was the ugly wound to George's lower back that caused Nancy the most concern. It looked frighteningly close to the spine.

_What if she _stops_ breathing? _Nancy thought desperately. _Do I dare move her? It could make her injuries worse. Can I make a 'life over limb' decision?_

"Hang in there, George," she said softly, placing her hand over George's outstretched arm. "Keep breathing...just hang in there..."

With a modicum of relief, Nancy heard the wail of emergency sirens approaching.

* * *

"Molly? Are you okay?"

'Molly' was stirred from her thoughts by the concerned voice of her seatmate, Agent Robert Phillips. There was a dull ache forming somewhere in her head, and she knew her eyes were probably swollen and red.

"Sorry...Yeah, I'm fine. Just...memories, you know?"

Phillips nodded. He wished there was more he could personally do to help this young woman he was charged with protecting. He wished he could bring her safely home. This was surely no way to live, running and hiding because evil people wanted you dead.

_One day,_ Phillips vowed. _We'll get you home one day._


	5. Chicago

**A/N: Okay, you eager readers, here's chapter 5. You get a little more information. (But not much more.)**

Chapter 5

It was early evening by the time the Hardys pulled into the parking lot of a motel they were staying at for the night. Typical of Chicago, there was no available space for parking.

Frank grunted in disgust.

Joe looked over at his brother, knowing he was tired and cranky from the long drive. They'd stopped only once for a meal and restroom break, as well as to make another call to the Station of the 19th District that Nancy had worked out of to make an appointment with the man who had been her direct superior officer.

"We're still, oh, 14 or so hours early for our appointment with Nancy's superior officer, Frank," Joe said, sensing that his brother's frustration level was beginning to reach unbearable levels.

"I know." Frank muttered, and continued to drive around the parking lot, looking for a place he could squeeze into with the rental car.

When a spot finally opened up, it was with relief that Frank pulled in. He gave the departing driver a grateful wave, and turned off the ignition.

"I know you want answers, Frank," Joe said in the semi-darkness of the lot. "but we're going to have to plan here. Are you going to tell that Sergeant Mahoney tomorrow that we believe Nancy is alive?"

"I don't know." Frank said, his tone oddly flat. "We've just got to play it by ear. See what they tell us over there. Like I said, something's not right."

"You know, Frank, either way, I think Mr. Drew has a right to know what we're doing."

"Why?"

"Don't you think he'd want to know? If your roles were reversed, wouldn't you want to know?"

Frank exhaled sharply. "I suppose so."

"Fine. Then I say that when we're through with speaking to that Sergeant tomorrow, we head into River Heights."

"Fine." With that, Frank opened his door and got out of the car, slamming the door shut.

Joe sat still for a moment in the passenger's seat. He'd been wanting to ask Frank what his problem was, but he knew that his brother's mood was directly related to his unresolved issues with Nancy Drew. _He's got more than a 'thing' for Ms. Drew,_ Joe thought. _Oh, boy. We're in trouble now!_

* * *

"I picked last time," the woman whose driver's license identified her as 'Molly Jenkins' said.

"I know," Agent Phillips said, "but you know we prefer it if you have some say in what name you get to choose."

"I thought you said I'd have a new I.D. waiting for me when we arrived."

"So I lied. Now come on, you don't want _me_ to saddle you with something corny like 'Sally-Ann' do you?"

In spite of herself, 'Molly' found herself smiling at Agent Phillips' lame attempts at a humorous exchange.

"Okay, then, I choose... Joan Foster. Do I look like a 'Joan' ?"

"If we get you to dye your hair brown, sure, _Joan_," Agent Phillips said. "Okay. We'll have your new I.D.s, etc., ready for you as soon as we can. But again, you're more than familiar with how we do things...You know, you're holding up remarkably well. I just had to tell you that."

"I'm doing what I have to do to survive," the woman now calling herself 'Joan' said seriously, thinking of all the extremely close calls she'd had over the past year, the least of which was not her encounter last night in New York with Frank and Joe Hardy.

"Of course," Agent Phillips said, nodding his head. "...Right, then. Try to get some rest. Start thinking about what you want to do with your time while you're in San Francisco. This may sound terrible, but a job that's not as public as waiting on tables might be a better idea this time around."

"You're absolutely right, Agent Phillips," 'Joan' said, but sighed inwardly. _The real problem is that I've been all over this country, working cases. No matter how much I try to change my appearance and my name, people are going to recognize me. Is there anywhere I can hide? Is there any place I can truly be safe? _

"If you need me, I'll be here on the couch." Agent Phillips said, and stretched out his legs.

'Joan' walked from the living room of the San Francisco safe house into the small bathroom. From a duffel bag she pulled out a bottle of dye, and got to work altering the colour of her hair.

For what must have been the millionth time since all this madness began, she wondered if just one man in particular would recognize her in any one of her personas. Would he know who she was if they happened to cross paths? And if so, would he be overjoyed to see her, or would he think his mind was playing tricks on him and pass her by? Would he be upset or even angry and bitter?

_Ned,_ she thought sadly, _will I ever be able to see you again? And if I do, will you ever be able to forgive me for what's happened?_

* * *

"You ready?" Joe asked with some trepidation.

"Yeah. Whatever it is that's been going on here, for better or worse, we're going to get to the bottom of it."

After a rather fitful sleep on the lumpy mattresses of the motel, Frank and Joe had arrived with a few minutes to spare at the 19th district station on West Belmont.

Sergeant Matthew Mahoney was waiting in his office for the brothers for their appointment. He was a balding man with a bit of a paunch, in his early 50's. His office had a desk that was well-used and worn-looking.

"Come on in, sit down," he said, invitingly.

Frank and Joe took an instant liking to the man, who seemed to have an easygoing manner.

_So this is the man Nancy reported to,_ Frank thought, after formal introductions had been made. _I bet she liked him, too._

The two young men took seats opposite the older man, and explained their reasons for wanting to meet with him.

"You see, we're old friends of Detective Drew," Frank started. "We were out of the country when – well, when she disappeared and was presumed dead."

Sergeant Mahoney raised his eyebrows slightly, but remained silent.

"We want to be able to trace Nancy's movements leading up to her disappearance last year," Joe added.

"Detective Drew was young, but she was a very good officer," Sergeant Mahoney stated. "Always professional. She was smart, too. I'd even say she was brilliant. She took her detective exam at the earliest possible point she could. Passed with flying colours. She had a great career ahead of her." The sergeant shook his head sadly. "Damn shame. A real damn shame."

"Can you fill us in on exactly what happened?" Frank asked, hungry for details. He was still unsure of whether or not he ought to tell Mahoney about the encounter the night before in New York.

Sergeant Mahoney shrugged. "We're not sure, really. Only theories. Divers found her vehicle in the Lake. That's Lake Michigan, of course. How it actually got there is the real question."

"How is it divers came to find her car there?" Joe asked.

"There had been an accident last year. Driver of a car slipped into a diabetic coma. Went off a pier. Driver drowned, unfortunately. When water rescue went down to make the recovery, they spotted Detective Drew's car down there as well."

"Your desk sergeant told me Nan, er, Detective Drew had been missing for two months prior to the discovery of her car. Who reported her missing? Who was investigating her disappearance?" asked Frank.

"Her father, Carson, filed the report. I remember quite clearly. He came in here the afternoon after the shooting."

"The shooting? What shooting?" Frank exclaimed.

"You mean you didn't know?" Sergeant Mahoney fixed his eyes on the Hardys in an expression of surprise.

Frank and Joe exchanged worried looks.

"No, Sergeant. Please elaborate," Frank said, not enjoying the feeling of dread he was experiencing.

"I'll see if I can pull out the file, just so I can give you the facts straight," Sergeant Mahoney said. He picked up his phone and put a request through to his administrative assistant for the pertinent files. "Okay, while those files are being pulled up, I'll give you a quick overview:

"Detective Drew was having dinner last year October with two others at an outdoor café. There was a drive-by shooing we believed to have been mob-related."

Frank stared at the sergeant. _A drive-by shooting?_

"All three women were injured," Sergeant Mahoney continued.

Frank's heart skipped a beat.

"Excuse me, Sarge," Joe cut in, "but the identities of the two others with Nancy-"

"Ah, yes...They were friends of hers from out of town. From her hometown, actually, if my memory serves me correctly."

"Bess and George," Frank murmured, not liking where this was going.

"What's that? Oh, yes. Bess Marvin and Georgina Fayne. Why, you know them, too?"

Frank and Joe could only nod.

"You two all right?" Mahoney asked, looking at them with concern.

"Just tell us – how badly were they hurt?" asked a still stunned Frank.

"Well, Detective Drew came away with a fairly nasty flesh wound, but nothing really serious. Ms. Marvin's right collarbone was badly damaged, but had she been shot any lower, it might have taken out a lung instead. She was lucky. It was Ms. Fayne who had it the worst, sadly. Her back was to the street. When the bullets started flying, she was hit twice. One bullet shattered her spine. The other cracked her right shoulder blade."

"Her _spine_." Joe repeated tonelessly, unbelieving, almost in a daze at this shocking news.

"Afraid so," said Sergeant Mahoney grimly, "lower vertebrae. Instant and permanent paralysis."

"Good Lord," Frank whispered, shaking his head. Joe silently stared at his feet. Both felt chilled to the bone.

There was a rap at the door. All three men looked up.

"I have those files you were asking for, Sergeant," announced a female plainclothes detective as she opened the door, holding a folder.

She walked in and quickly deposited it on Mahoney's desk. Her curious eyes swept over Frank and Joe.

"Thank you, Detective Brunelle," Mahoney said, "that'll be all."

Brunelle gave a curt nod and exited the office.

"Let's see," Sergeant Mahoney said, flipping through the contents of the folder. "Yeah. The evening of October 10th...Nine-one-one call came in at approximately 8:16 p.m...Police and ambulances were dispatched...Witness reports here state that between eight and ten shots were fired...Detective Drew herself was the only witness at the scene who got a look at the car. The only one who admitted it, anyway."

"You said earlier that it was believed to have been a mob-related shooting," Frank said, finally finding his voice. "You think the _mob_ put a hit out on Nancy because she was the only one who could identify the car, and/or possibly the shooter?"

Sergeant Mahoney shrugged. "That was one theory. What we do know is that on the night of the shooting, after being questioned and treated at the scene, Detective Drew was taken to Mt. Sinai just for precautionary measures. She later checked herself out, saying she was on her way to Northwestern Memorial Hospital, where Ms. Fayne was taken due to the more critical nature of her injuries."

Frank and Joe winced again at the knowledge that George had been irreparably injured.

"That was the last anyone saw of Detective Drew," Mahoney continued. "She never arrived at Northwestern. When they found her car two months later, we figured she either lost control of the car due to delayed shock and drove into the Lake, or she was followed and killed by people who didn't want her around to testify about the shooting. Here, I'll put you in touch with Sergeant MacMillan. He's in charge of our Gangs Tactical team. They were the ones investigating the shooting."

"Thanks, Sergeant Mahoney. We really appreciate your time." Joe said, standing up.

"No problem. I've heard lots of stories about you fellas and your Father. Just a damn shame it's too late for any of us to have helped Detective Drew."

"I just have one final question for you, Sergeant," Frank said, "what exactly was Nancy working on before she went missing?"

"Oh, that serial case. I'm sure you've heard of it. Young women in the Chicago area found strangled in their homes?"

"I must have read about it someplace," Frank said.

"Detective Drew was on the task force. They've been trying to catch that bastard for two years now. But that was _another_ damn shame."

"What was?" Joe asked, sitting back down in his chair.

"Well, the morning of the 10th, we got a call in about a homicide. Detective Drew and her partner, Detective Thomas Morrison arrived on the scene. Only the 'scene' was Detective Morrison's own home. Unbelievable bastard had killed Detective Morrison's wife, Debra."

"No way," Joe said.

"Son of a bitch was sending us a message: that he could kill who he wanted whenever he wanted, even a cop's wife. Tom was devastated. We pulled him and Detective Drew off the case immediately, even though Detective Drew protested. She didn't want to be left out of it. I ordered her to go home that day, but she was pretty adamant. So I told her I'd see what the District Commander thought of the situation. When you're on a case that hits close to home, being objective becomes very difficult."

_You can say that again,_ Joe thought, instantly thinking of Frank and his interest in helping bring Nancy home.

"That was one Friday we were not thankful for by any means," Mahoney said. "Debbie Gray – that's Tom's wife - was on staff here with the medical examiner's office. Just two days before, the Chief Medical Examiner, Dr. Stanley Vasek, keeled over with a massive heart attack, right there in his office, filling out an autopsy report. Deb had to step in real quick and take over running the lab. When she was killed, we had to rush _another_ pathologist in here to cover what the two of them would have been doing."

"Does Detective Morrison still work out of this District?" Frank inquired.

"Yeah," Sergeant Mahoney said. "You wanna talk with him, too?"

"Absolutely," Frank said.

"Okay. I'll put in a word to him about you."

"Thanks," Joe said, and handed Mahoney one of their cards. "He can reach us at this number here if he wants to get in touch. I think my brother and I would like to see him as soon as possible."

"Sure, sure," Sergeant Mahoney said. "I just gotta say that between the serial killing case and that mob shooting, well, everyone here was really shook up. A lot of the officers here have tried to move past it, see? Everyone knew Detective Drew, and most of 'em were familiar with Dr. Gray. If you're gonna be speaking with anyone else, go easy. It's never easy opening up old wounds."

"I think we understand the sensitive nature of things, Sergeant Mahoney," Frank said to the older man. "Thank you for your time."

The Hardys left the building with the contact number for Sergeant Joe MacMillan, head of the Gangs Tac team. They would be setting up a meeting with him soon in order to obtain information about the drive-by shooting.

"So, what did you think about that meeting?" Joe asked Frank when they were finally in the car.

"It went well enough," Frank said. "I like the guy, but I still got the feeling he was hiding something..."


	6. Homesick

**A/N: Yes, I have updated at last. We get a very Nancy-centric chapter. Once again, I am dropping very little in the way of explanation. That, I promise, will come very, very soon. (Like next chapter soon.) ENJOY!!**

Chapter 6

A young woman with dark brown hair, who, if asked her name, would reply 'Joan Foster', was spending her morning hunting for a job and an inexpensive place to rent. The rising sun was doing little to burn off the fog that had rolled in thickly from the Bay, obscuring the famous landmark, the Golden Gate Bridge. It only added to the sense of sadness, depression and...doom...that's what it was. Doom. Gloom.

Of course San Francisco was a nice place, but she just felt so damned lonely. Seeing Frank and Joe Hardy had only deepened that sense of feeling abandoned and forgotten. It was better this way, of course, for almost everyone to think she was dead. That way there would be little chance of her location being leaked, little chance of being found by those who wanted to make sure she really was dead.

She was always the most impatient and homesick on those days that were specifically scheduled for the secured conversations she was permitted to have with her Father, Carson. He was the one person she would not have been able to bear being left in the dark about her predicament. As it was, he had been involved with the case from the very beginning, anyway. She knew he worried about her constantly, but had to hide that worry, and instead play the role of grieving parent. He had to be careful not to say anything to anyone that he knew she was not drowned in Lake Michigan.

While it was always a relief to hear his voice on the phone, it was heart-wrenching each time they had to end the call. Of course she could never tell him where she was, and he never asked, although she knew he was tempted to do so. Both knew that knowledge could slip out, however inadvertently. And that could have terrible consequences, as it had in the past, and as it very well might now that the Hardys had made her in New York. Time would tell how much damage that incident would cause.

'Joan', shaking these thoughts free, walked about Union Square, a four-square-block park in San Francisco, which was easily accessible by public transportation like Muni and BART. It was that very convenience that prompted her to investigate it for possible employment, also hoping there would be a place to rent that was affordable, especially for someone presently without an income.

The streets were quite busy with vendors peddling their wares, musicians busking, vagrants and other members of society's less fortunate. Traffic was very heavy, prompting 'Joan' to be thankful for the excellent transit situation, as having a car would mean sitting in congested streets most of the time – not that a car was in her reach at this time anyway. She fleetingly thought of that little third-hand Toyota she had been able to obtain back in New York...hopefully it had been thoroughly combed by agents and relieved of any evidence of her presence, just in case some assassin was sent there to hunt her down.

With her new driver's license, social security number and a lone credit card with a rather paltry limit, 'Joan' nevertheless tried to make the best of the situation. There was only so much the Federal Witness Program could pay for, and 'Joan' knew that aside from staying alive, her top priority was to find a living space and a job.

This was the fourth time she had had to do this – this job hunt where she would have to convince someone to hire her without the benefit of credentials, qualifications, educational background...The witness program staff was not going to provide false references for her. Something as near to anonymous as possible seemed in order this time, as Agent Phillips had suggested, after what had happened at the bistro in New York.

'Joan' felt her spirits sink. Having to lie to Frank and Joe had hurt more than she realised. She remembered the questioning look in Frank's eyes; knowing he recognized her, knowing he wanted to be able to help her. And Joe's gentle probing; causally mentioning how much she resembled Nancy Drew. He did that, she knew, to see how she would react, to see if she would let them in on what was going on.

Frank and Joe. They'd all worked together so well in the past. Those days seemed so long ago. They had all moved on with their lives, starting successful careers in their chosen fields. But in doing so, had drifted apart and lost touch.

_And now with my life a shambles, the Hardys come crashing back in, just as unexpectedly as they always did, only this time their timing is truly horrible._

Back in the 'good old days', meeting up with them had always been a wonderful experience. Those cases they'd worked and solved together, even those in which their lives were in jeopardy, were child's play compared to what was happening now. Things seemed so insurmountable now. What, if anything, would the Hardys be able to uncover? Good Lord, even knowing she was alive was dangerous!

Well, whatever they found, Agent Phillips had promised to keep tabs on any development. His colleagues in the Chicago field office that were still assigned to her case had been notified, and would report any activity or inquiries made by the Hardys.

'Joan' sighed softly. How long would it take the Bureau to break the case open, make the arrests that needed to be made, and secure a conviction? It had already been a year since it all started. But it was evidence that was so sorely lacking...Proof of wrongdoing so hard to obtain...the parties involved so difficult to touch... How long would she have to remain in hiding, always looking over her shoulder for fear that the next stranger behind her held a loaded gun, intent on killing her?

She remembered the first time it had happened, a couple months after the drive-by shooting in Chicago. It was shortly after Christmas, and she had been returning from her little job at a small coffee shop in Phoenix, Arizona. Her name was 'Marie Davenport' then. She had just rounded the corner and was approaching her tiny apartment block when Agent Phillips had walked briskly down the street and intercepted her. Stiffly taking her arm in his, he turned her around and whisked her into a waiting car, with a driver all ready to take off.

"_What's going on?" she had asked, picking up on the tension in the air._

"_We think you've been found," he said tersely, closing the backseat door quickly._

"_Are you sure?" she whispered to him, feeling a sudden dread as the car sped away._

"_There's been a car parked outside your apartment for the past two afternoons. Yesterday, we made the same car outside your coffee place. We think you've been watched and followed. We didn't want to wait around to see if and when the guy waiting inside the car tonight would pull out a gun."_

"_Phil," the driver's worried voice broke in suddenly, looking back hastily at Agent Phillips._

"_What?"_

"_We're being tailed. It's that car we've been watching."_

"_Lose them, now!" Agent Phillips commanded._

"_I'll try!"_

"_Hurry!" urged Agent Philips. "Marie, get down on the floor. If this guy starts shooting, I don't want you to be any kind of target."_

_She remembered crouching on the floor, uncomfortably wedged between the front passenger seat and the backseat, trying not to get sick as the car swerved this way and that, took corners at top speed, the centrifugal force further disorienting her. Once she dared to raise her head and look up. The colourful Christmas lights that were still up in the storefront windows all blurred together as they whizzed past, and Phillips barked, "Keep your head down!"_

_She'd ducked even lower, crossing her arms over her head, as if that would somehow offer her protection from well-aimed bullets fired from a professional killer's weapon. _

_After what seemed like an eternity of enduring reckless driving, she began to feel the car slow perceptibly. She was relieved to hear the driver say the words she'd been praying to hear: "We lost him."_

The 'Marie Davenport' identity was shed that night, and she was on her way to another city early the next morning in Louisiana.

Marie Davenport; Dana Farrell; Molly Jenkins; Joan Foster.

Arizona; New Orleans; New York; California.

_How many more names? How many more states?_ 'Joan' wondered miserably, as she stood on the sidewalk, almost oblivious to the passers by. _How can things have turned out so wrong?_

Impatiently shaking her head and growing angry with herself for wallowing in self-pity, 'Joan' continued down the sidewalk, keeping her eyes open for potential apartment vacancies and 'help wanted' signs. But she could not keep her mind from wandering back to Frank and Joe Hardy, and the inevitability that they would be actively digging into her case. She was distressed by the knowledge that the deeper they dug, the more they were exposing themselves to the same danger that she had been forced to flee.


	7. Killer Connection

**A/N: YES! The chapter you've all been waiting for! (Well, not really, but I did promise you more information this time around, and I'm giving it to you.) Please enjoy, and thank you, one and all, for all the encouraging reviews! You make this writer very happy. Please continue to send them – the story is far from being over.**

****Chapter 7.

Sergeant Matt Mahoney closed his door office door securely. Sitting down at his desk, he collected his thoughts, planning what he would say when he called Sergeant Joseph MacMillan. His own meeting with Frank and Joe Hardy had gone as well as could be expected. He hoped the information he had provided them with was enough to stem their curiosity and that they would leave Chicago satisfied, though he got the feeling they were withholding something.

And they still wanted to meet with MacMillan and with Tom Morrison.

Damn. Tom Morrison was the last person Mahoney wanted the Hardys talking with. Oh, well. He really couldn't begrudge them that request; they'd probably find a way to contact Detective Drew's former partner on their own, anyway. What a real mess this was turning out to be! If only those Hardy boys weren't so damn nosy. But, one really had to admire their determination.

Sighing, Sergeant Mahoney dialled the number he knew be heart and waited while the other line rang.

"Sergeant MacMillan," a deep, serious voice answered.

"Hey, Mac, it's Mahoney here…how're things?" Sergeant Mahoney leaned back in his chair, holding the telephone against his ear with his shoulder as he twiddled with the cord with his fingers. Then a rather upsetting thought entered his mind and he dropped the coils in disgust and irritation.

"Can't complain, Mahoney," came MacMillan's amiable reply. "What can I do for you?"

"I'm sending over some gents to see you. I was hoping you could make time for them this afternoon."

"Who, and why?" came MacMillan's swift, no-nonsense response.

"You might know their names by reputation: A Frank and Joe Hardy. They're asking questions about the Drew case."

Sergeant MacMillan exhaled slowly, emitting a low whistle. "Is that so? What have you told them?"

"The 'official' story. Nothing more."

"Good. So, what do you think they're up to, poking around like this?"

"Not sure," Mahoney said. "It seems the Hardys and Drew were real chummy a few years back. I've checked into that and it's true. The three of them were out solving some serious cases back when they were kids. Well, not _kids_, but you get my drift."

"Sure. So these Hardys are on the level, _apparently_."

"Apparently," Mahoney said cautiously.

"So, Drew and the Hardys…Old friends. Hmmm…Now they're here, I suppose, expressing natural curiosity into what went down, right?"

"That's what it seems like. Just the same, Mac, when you meet with them, be careful. Things are at a pretty precarious position right now. If the Hardys become more deeply involved, their interference could very well mess things up."

"I'll be careful, Mahoney," Sergeant MacMillan promised. "I know exactly what's at stake."

"Good. So, what time works for you?"

Mahoney hung up after confirming with MacMillan a time that he would be willing to meet with the Hardys. He called the cell phone number they left with him, and when Frank answered, let them know the time they would be expected.

* * *

It was shortly after twelve, noon when Frank parked the car in the driveway of the Drew house.

Apprehension almost made him freeze as he watched Joe get out of the car.

"Are you coming?" the younger man called out. Willing himself to move, Frank unbuckled his seatbelt and followed Joe up to the front door.

Joe pressed the doorbell, and stole a puzzled glance back at Frank, who slunk behind as if he were trying to hide.

"What's the matter with you?" he whispered under his breath.

"Nothing," Frank whispered back. "Just…I just don't know what we're going to say to him…"

The front door opened. Standing before them was a tall, lean, distinguished-looking man in his late fifties. His temples were pure white, and his dark head was attractively flecked with silver. His handsome face, however, was noticeably lined.

_Worry lines_, Joe thought to himself immediately. _Who can blame him?_

"Good afternoon, Mr. Drew," Joe said, shaking hands firmly with Carson Drew.

"Joe; Frank, it's good to see you. It's been too long." Carson said heartily, also taking Frank's hand. "Please, come in."

The trio entered the foyer and Carson led them into the spacious living room.

"Can I offer you two something to eat? Drink? I'm afraid Hannah has - taken some time off, so what you'll get won't be anywhere near her legendary desserts," the older man remarked with a wry smile.

"Uh, we're fine thanks, Mr. Drew. We stopped for a bite on the way over here." Joe said.

Carson simply nodded. "Of course. Well, have a seat then, won't you?"

Frank chose a club chair and Joe sat in a recliner next to his brother, while Carson took the roomy love seat opposite, so he could face them.

A moment of uncomfortable silence passed between the men. Joe shifted his eyes to Frank in an expression that said: _Well, get started! Say something!_

But it was Carson who spoke:

"You've seen her, haven't you?"

Stunned by the question, Frank and Joe stared at each other momentarily.

Frank looked directly at Carson. "Yes," he said slowly. "We have."

A pained expression came upon his face, and he looked away. "I thought so…When you called me today…I just had a feeling…"

"What's been going on here? Something is _very_ wrong. We just had a meeting with Nancy's Sergeant, and he told us about the drive-by shooting a year ago." Frank tried to engage Carson in the conversation.

The other man was not meeting his gaze.

"Mr. Drew, _what happened that night?_" Frank pleaded.

Their host at last looked up, the stricken expression still haunting his eyes.

"Why did Nancy have to go on the run?" Joe prodded. "Everyone else thinks she's dead. We know now she's not. What happened?"

Carson closed his eyes and took a deep breath.

"That night…I got a phone call from Nancy, telling me what had happened and that she was about to be transported to Mt. Sinai Hospital… You don't need me to tell you how shocked I was by the news that she and Bess and George had been _shot_. I was about to rush off to meet her there when the phone rang again. I was going to let the machine take it, but then I thought maybe it might be Nancy calling me back…"

_Carson recalled that he gingerly reached for it, and answered slowly, "Hello?"_

_A voice, low and monotone said, "Mr. Drew…don't say a word. Just listen and do as I say: Get your daughter out of Chicago now."_

"_What? Who is this?" Carson questioned. There was no answer._

"_Who is this!" Carson heatedly demanded once again, becoming increasingly unsettled. "What do you know about my daughter!" _

_A sigh came from the other side of the line. _

"_Look, we don't have much time," the stranger's voice on the phone became more audible, abandoning its earlier hushed tone. "The people who hired me to kill your daughter are real bad news. If they knew I was talking to you…"_

"You_ tried to kill Nancy?" Carson exclaimed._

"_No..! I mean yes, well, I was hired to, but…"_

"_But what?"_

"_Listen, like I said before, they find out I'm telling you, I'm dead. I may already be dead for not following through…"_

" '_Not following through'!" Carson was incredulous. "What the hell do you mean? You shot my daughter in the arm, and another young woman in the back, and she may very well die!"_

"_Look – it was either your daughter or your daughter's friends, okay? I did the best I could to make it look good-"_

_"Make it 'look good'!" Carson echoed in a shocked tone._

"_Hey - I can at least claim I missed the target because the friend got in the way. Now, I'm not gonna say it again. Take my warning seriously: Get her out of town right now, because I've got to make it look like I've done everything I could possibly do to eliminate her."_

"_But why do they want her dead? _Who_ wants her dead? Who hired you?"_

"_What are you, kidding me? They don't tell me things like that. Just who the target is. But if the payoff I'm getting and the middle-men who contracted me are any indication, we're talking seriously bad people…Now quit asking dumb questions and get her outta Chicago. Because if I don't do it, they're gonna get someone else to do it, and they're not gonna stop until she's dead!"_

"_Why are you doing this? Why are you telling me this if there is such a risk to your own safety?"_

_There was silence for a moment, and Carson was afraid the caller had hung up. Then:_

"_Just consider it a favour being returned. You helped me out many years ago when I was in trouble. The fact that things still went sour in my life is no fault of yours. Now go and get your kid outta here!"_

_Then there was a decisive click on the other end. _

"And that's how all this madness started," Carson said grimly.

"You have no idea who that caller was?" Joe asked.

"Not in the beginning. I was much too concerned about getting Nancy to safety."

"I see," Joe said. "So what happened after that? Did you report the call?"

"Of course I did. Based on the drive-by incident and that telephone death threat, the FBI stepped in and placed Nancy under protection immediately. That very night, in fact. The prevailing theory is that some very serious mob activity was going on – and it's been by an organization that the Feds have had their eye on for quite some time."

"That's what Sergeant Mahoney said, too," Joe added. "He's also going to put us in touch with Thomas Morrison and Sergeant MacMillan. We understand MacMillan's tactical team caught the drive-by investigation."

"Yes," Carson confirmed. "They were co-operating with the FBI."

"I'm not sure I'm all that familiar with organized crime in Chicago, Mr. Drew. Whose gang does the FBI suspect in the drive-by and the death threat against Nancy?"

"Gus Marouelli," Carson said grimly. "Crime boss. Runs numbers rackets, 'protection', guns, drugs, prostitution, you name it; he's in it."

"And Nancy's car…" Frank said.

"That was done to hopefully throw them off the scent. The afternoon after the shooting, I went in and reported Nancy's 'disappearance'. Of course, Nancy really 'disappeared' into hiding. Since the Feds knew that Marouelli's thugs had failed to kill her the night of the drive-by, and that the 'missing' story might be wearing a little thin, they staged an accident two months later in which the cover story was a diabetic driver going off the pier. Discovering Nancy's car was the real aim in that exercise. It was hoped that would keep Nancy out of danger while the Feds tried to build a case against Marouelli's organization. If they thought she was dead, they'd stop looking for her."

"And no one, except Nancy's handlers know her exact location, right?" Frank guessed.

"Right," Carson said with a sigh. "It's nearly driven me insane not knowing where she's been for the past year, but I know it's for the best."

While the Hardys knew Carson was being honest, his tone suggested he was deeply troubled and quite emotional about the entire situation.

"Mr Drew, we understand Nancy was working on the serial killing case before the attempt on her life. What possible reason could Marouelli's organization have for targeting her? Is there anything else about that night – anything at all – something Nancy may have said in passing, some minor detail that seemed insignificant at the time, but could be important now that might help?"

Carson looked uneasy. "Frank…What do you hope to accomplish by this?"

"Well, we want answers, just like you do," Frank said, a little taken aback by Carson's question. Why was everyone so seemingly against them investigating this matter?

"Answers…" Carson mused. "I'm afraid answers will not be easy to come by. I know you want to help, guys, but I'd advise you let the proper authorities deal with this one. They have the resources. They have the people in place."

Frank was getting frustrated. "If that's the case," he said, trying to keep his tone even, "then why haven't they brought the perpetrators to justice and brought Nancy home?"

Joe, with a warning glance, reached out and put a hand on his brother's arm. The gesture was obvious: _Cool it!_

But Carson understood. "Believe me, Frank, I want nothing more than to have my daughter safely back. But there is a right way and a wrong way to go about this. The situation is very delicate. I can't stop you from doing what you think is right, but the Bureau just might think you're interfering with their own investigation."

"But me and Joe – we're outsiders. We're not Bureau or CPD. We might be able to go places and get answers through unofficial channels. We've got to do _something_."

"Then my advice to you is to do it very carefully. If Marouelli's gang gets wind of what you're up to and thinks you're getting too close, you'll be next on their hit list." Carson's voice took on a wary tone. "That organization has been suspected but never convicted in several murder cases. That's how they work: those who try to testify against them never make it to the witness stand. I should know: I'm a criminal defense attorney and I've heard the rumours. Defense attorneys are usually thrilled when witnesses for the Prosecution don't show up, but when the reason they don't show is due to foul play, we're not so thrilled. The ethical ones, anyway."

"So Nancy's just going to remain in hiding until the Feds bring down Marouelli?" Frank asked, a stony expression on his face.

Carson did not speak but simply nodded. It seemed to Frank that Nancy's father did not like considering just how long her stint in the protection program might last.

"Mr. Drew, how are Bess and George? Do they know about Nancy?" Joe asked, trying to change the subject, and assuage his own fears about the recovery process of the young women.

"They're coping remarkably well, considering the circumstances," Carson replied. "They have no knowledge of Nancy's being under protection."

"That's gotta be rough, you keeping up this charade, lying to everyone you know…" Joe said.

"Funny you should say that. Bess in particular has not been buying the story that Nancy's dead," Carson said. "You see, something strange happened last year just around Christmas."

"What was it?" asked Joe.

"An old school friend of theirs, a girl named Lisa Scotti-Turner was visiting. Lisa used to be a nurse here, at Rosemont Hospital. She married and moved out to Phoenix with her husband Alan Turner, but came back to see her folks for the holidays."

"Yes, go on," Joe prompted, and Frank leaned in closer to hear the details of the story.

"A lot of the old school pals had gotten together for a Christmas party one day – Bess was among them - and Lisa of course, was shocked to hear about what had happened to everyone. But then she related that she could have sworn she saw Nancy, or someone like her, at the hospital that she works in Phoenix."

"Exactly when did Lisa claim to have seen Nancy?" Frank asked.

"A few weeks prior to that, around the end of October." Carson answered.

"Did Lisa tell them why this person looking like Nancy was in the hospital?" Frank could feel his heart beating faster.

"Well, because Lisa had only seen the person she thought to be Nancy in passing, and because she was making her rounds, she didn't get a chance to look anything up until later in her shift. By that time, the look-alike had been discharged, after having been treated for an infection in the upper left arm. But the name on the chart said 'Marie Davenport', not 'Nancy Drew'," Carson explained. "Of course, when Lisa saw that name, she decided it could not have been Nancy. She had all but forgotten about the incident until she found out about the drive-by and Nancy's 'drowning' in Lake Michigan when she came out here."

"But I bet Bess must have been wondering about that upper left arm thing," Joe said astutely. "Is there a way we can contact this Lisa in Phoenix?"

Carson shook his head. "No, sadly. And that's another reason why Bess has been suspicious about the whole cover story. Shortly after Lisa went back home, she was the unfortunate victim of a fatal car accident. Her car plunged off an overpass on the way home from work."

"You're kidding," Joe said, aghast. "And Bess somehow thinks there's a connection?"

Carson nodded. "I can't say I blame her, either. If indeed Lisa did see Nancy at the hospital in Phoenix, and she had details about Nancy's whereabouts in that city, whoever has been hunting Nancy down would have made a beeline for Lisa."

Frank shook his head. "Unbelievable. That means word of Lisa's encounter with Nancy in Phoenix must have gotten out and been heard by the wrong people. I don't like how this is developing at all."

Carson nodded. "Walls have ears," he said grimly. "Except these, of course. The Bureau came in and planted some bug killers in the house. No one is listening in to anything we're saying – just in case you were wondering about that."

"Mr. Drew, I'd like to be able to meet with Bess," Joe said, thinking now of the attractive, bubbly, outgoing and fun-living blonde. She probably wasn't quite so bubbly these days; not after the hellish experience she'd been through. "And George, too. We've got to know exactly what happened the night of the drive-by."

"I can let them know you'd like to see them," Carson said. "I think they'd be glad to see you. But I've got to warn you, Joe. Please – you can't let them know what you know about Nancy."

"Don't worry; we won't." Joe vowed.

Frank looked suddenly at his watch. "Uh, Joe," he murmured, "we'd better move. We've got to get back into the city for that appointment with Sergeant MacMillan."

"Don't let me keep you, then," Carson said as he stood up. "If you're going to truly pursue this, I beg you to be careful, and to consider what's best for Nancy's safety."

"Nancy's safety is my only consideration," Frank said solemnly.

_There Frank goes again,_ Joe thought to himself, _opening his big mouth and spilling his guts – in front of Nancy's father, no less! He might as well put up a billboard saying 'Frank Hardy loves Nancy Drew'!_

In the car heading back into Chicago, Joe turned to Frank.

"You're starting to let your emotions get away with you."

"What are you talking about?" Frank asked.

"You know what I'm talking about," Joe replied. "You've always felt something a little more than a simple professional friendship with Nancy. Everyone knows it."

"Who is 'everyone'?" Frank countered, "you?"

"Don't play ignorant, Frank. You never pursued it because you and Callie were an item. And since that relationship didn't work out, you're finally thinking you have a chance to get closer to Nancy. And let me just say that if you're going to start making this as personal as I think you're making it, you're going to have lapses in judgment."

"I suppose you're an expert on lapsed judgment, aren't you, Joe?" Frank said coldly.

"Hey, that was a cheap shot, Frank. I'm only telling you as your brother. I'm all for helping get Nancy back to a normal life just like you and her father. But if you're doing it because you've got some notion in your head that because you're in love with her you can-"

"I'm _not_ 'in love with her'," Frank spat, "how dare you judge my motives? And even if I was in love with her, then all the more reason why I should be involved. Because then there would be a guarantee that Nancy's best interests would be taken into consideration."

Joe stared at Frank evenly for a long time, then shook his head. "Forget I said anything. Just drive."

The brothers spent the rest of the drive back into Chicago in icy silence.

When they finally reached their destination of the 19th District, they were still not speaking to each other. Wordlessly they left the car and approached the entrance. There was a white man that appeared to be in his early 40's standing there, smoking a cigarette. He was wearing a bomber jacket and khakis, and his unruly hair was just beginning to show signs of greying. When he saw them approach, he dropped the cigarette and ground it out with the toe of his shoe.

"Frank and Joe Hardy?" he asked.

"Yes," Frank answered for the two of them.

"I'm Detective Thomas Morrison," he said quietly, shaking their hands in succession.

"We were hoping to meet with you sometime soon, Detective Morrison," Frank said.

"I know," replied Morrison. "That's why I'm here now. I also know you've met with my Sergeant, and that you're gonna be speaking with Sergeant MacMillan shortly."

"That's right," Joe said, then asked "what time is convenient for you?"

"Actually, I was hoping I could talk to you really quickly, right now, before you went up to see Mac," Morrison looked around carefully, as if afraid someone was watching.

"Why is that?" Frank asked, noting his sudden change in demeanour.

"To warn you," Morrison answered cryptically.

"About what?" Joe queried.

"Sergeants Mahoney and MacMillan. You're not from around here, so you don't know. Hell, most people in his station don't know either…But ten years ago, both Mahoney and Mac were implicated by some very shady characters in some very serious business."

"What sort of implications are we talking about?" asked Frank, suddenly feeling tense.

"That they had been bribed by crime boss, Gus Marouelli, and that they were actively, though secretly, recruiting cops from the ranks of the CPD."

"Are you suggesting that your Sergeants are crooked, Detective Morrison?" Frank asked, incredulous at the allegations.

"I know how it sounds," Morrison replied hastily, "and the charges never really made it out in the open, and Mahoney and Mac were never investigated. Look, I know you're here because of what happened to my partner. If you really want to get justice for what happened to her, you've got to know who you're dealing with. My advice to you: don't trust a _word_ Jospeh MacMillan says."

* * *

A/N: Rosemont Hospital locale and character Lisa Scotti appeared in the Nancy Drew Mystery Stories #61 entitled: 'The Swami's Ring'.


	8. Call History

**A/N: Okay, you don't really expect more information yet, do you? Not after all those lovely revelations last time! This chapter is Nancy-centric again, and hopefully rounds out her past experiences a bit more. I do promise we'll be moving on with the meat of the actual plot soon enough. Enjoy! And once again, thanks for all the reviews, folks! Your encouragement is incredible.**

****Chapter 8.

Her name in this place was officially Joan Foster, but to the person she had just spoken to, she was someone else: she was her real self. It felt so good to be called by her real name, even if it was just once a week that it happened.

Carson Drew always used her real name when they were able to speak.

'Joan' reflected miserably on this most recent conversation with her father. He had not mentioned Ned Nickerson, nor had she brought him up. She was apprehensive about what she might hear from Carson if she did. It was worrisome that her father had not talked about Ned in the past few months at all. Carson's reluctance to talk about Ned might be a sign that the young man was moving on with his life, and 'Joan' did not want to face that possibility yet. She didn't want to think that Ned wouldn't be there for her when she was at last able to come home.

She remembered it had been so difficult learning how her friends were bearing up in those first few months while in the protective custody program. She had been desperate to know how Bess and George were doing, especially George. As 'Marie Davenport' in Phoenix, she had had to wait an interminable two weeks before she was able to speak to Carson after she'd been secreted away from Chicago. Not knowing any details about her friends at that point had been making her crazy.

"_Oh, Dad," _she'd wept, during the very first secure phone call they'd been able to share._ "It's so good to hear your voice. I've been losing my mind not being able to contact you or anyone else."_

"_I know, Nancy," Carson had replied, his voice obviously strained with emotion. "I'm just overjoyed that you're safe. I love you so much…"_

"_I love you, too, Dad," she whispered between tears. _

"_Nancy, your arm – are you really okay?"_

"_Um, it's a pretty nasty wound. Still hurts some, but it seems to be healing…Dad – it's been driving me insane not knowing anything about Bess and George…are they okay?"_

_There was a pause that Nancy did not like, and her fears that her friends' situations were dire increased a hundredfold._

"_Bess is going to be fine," Carson answered. "She underwent surgery to repair the damage to her collarbone. She's in some pain right now, and she'll need some physiotherapy to help with maintaining mobility in the shoulder and arm, but otherwise she's expected to make a full recovery."_

"_Thank God," Nancy breathed, then was terrified to ask, "…and George?"_

"_George…" Carson said, voice wavering, "George almost didn't make it. Her injuries were extremely critical. The first bullet shattered her spine and the second one split her right shoulder blade, and she lost a lot of blood. She was comatose for a week, and she's still in very serious condition. She's paralysed, Nancy."_

"_No," Nancy gasped, overwhelming dread washing over her. "Not George…Oh, Dad, is it permanent?" _

"_I'm afraid so."_

_Beautiful, strong, athletic George, confined to a wheelchair for the rest of her life! How could this be? _

_Why George? She'd wanted to scream. Why not me? I was the real target! It was me they wanted to kill. Instead, my friends are suffering the consequences!_

"_Nancy," Carson said, sensing that she must be feeling responsible for the tragedy, "George is thankful – we're _all_ thankful that she's even alive. The doctors said that it was mostly due to her incredible level of fitness that she survived. Eighty percent of people in her situation would not have made it. It's a small miracle. You must not blame yourself for what happened."_

_She knew he was trying to raise her spirits, but it did little to improve her wretched state. _

"_Dad," she started tentatively, "do they know about me?"_

"_No. As of now, you're officially 'missing'. They can't know the rest of the story. It's going to be hard on them, I know, but it's the only way to guarantee that you're kept safe until the FBI can mount enough evidence to bring Gus Marouelli and his cronies to justice."_

_"And Ned?"_

"_Ned," Carson paused, mentally arranging his words in a manner that would be least upsetting to Nancy. Then he realised that being totally honest with her was the best option: "Ned's completely devastated; heartbroken. I'm so sorry, Nan. He's been dealing with it as best he can, though. Right now, the media is reporting that '_hope is fading in finding missing detective alive'_. The whole thing has been very distressing for him. Some of those tabloids are really hounding him. He's had to leave his phone off the hook a couple nights. He keeps saying he just can't believe you're 'gone'."_

_Her heart was crushed at her father's words. Nancy had wanted to somehow telegraph her thoughts to the man she was in love with. _

_Ned, Ned…I'm alive! I never wanted to break your heart. Not like this. I'm so sorry you've got to be put through all this madness. Keep hoping, Ned. Don't let go of that hope that I'm coming back to you!_

"_And what about Hannah?" Nancy then asked, remembering their long-time housekeeper who was so much more than just hired help. "Dad, I can't tolerate the fact that she's got to be kept in the dark about this. She's been my surrogate mother. She's family."_

"_Hannah has taken it very hard, I fear. I don't know what I'll do when the time comes to stage your 'memorial service'."_

"_Oh God, are you really going to go through with it?" she asked, appalled at the notion._

"_The Bureau is cooking up a plan to make it look like you died in a car accident. I don't have the details myself, but they assure me it needs to be done in order to make Marouelli's thugs stop looking for you. I think they're going to be doing it in the next few weeks."_

"_Then everyone will think I'm dead for sure," she said with dismay. The thought made her ill. What would her friends do? What would Ned do? Would he give up hope of ever seeing her again? What would come of their well-laid plans? The talk of marriage had been a frequent topic of conversation before all this happened. Were those dreams now going to be empty and buried, just like the casket that would be buried at her fake funeral?_

"_Stay strong, Nancy," Carson said bravely, at the conclusion of the call. "I know it's hard. But we're going to beat them. Just promise me you'll stick with the protection program and stay safe."_

"_I promise," she said through tears that were still streaming down her face. "I love you, Dad,"_

"_I love you, too, sweetheart."_

As 'Joan' now sat on the poorly padded couch of the safe house in San Francisco, she wondered how many more weeks, months, or - Heaven forbid - _years_ she'd spend like this, having to speak to her father on the telephone and relying on him for information about the state of things back home. At what point would she just give up, lose heart, and just wander around in a daze, living a life that was a lie?

How long until she bumped into someone else she knew who would blow her cover? How long until Marouelli's hitmen tracked her down and finished the job?

No. She couldn't start to think like that.

_Don't let the depressing thoughts get to you, Drew,_ she warned herself severely. But even so, she was unable to prevent herself from rehashing the first call she was able to make after being whisked off from Arizona to Louisiana. It was at the beginning of January, a few days after the harrowing car chase in which they'd thankfully managed to lose her pursuer.

As 'Dana Farrell', she learned from Carson about the rumour going around that she had been spotted in Phoenix.

_"Who said I was there?" she'd asked, trying to sound amused by the report._

"_Lisa Scotti-Turner was in town for Christmas," Carson started to say. "There was a get-together, and Bess was there. She told Lisa all about the drive-by shooting and the recent finding of your car in the Lake. Bess said Lisa mentioned she could have sworn she saw you at the General Hospital in Phoenix where she works, back at the end of October. Then when she checked the chart, the name said 'Marie Davenport'_. _"_

_Lisa Scotti! The hospital in Phoenix! She'd completely forgotten her old school friend had married an Arizona native and moved there three years ago. _

"_Nancy, Bess is very upset about this," Carson said gravely. "She thinks you're in hiding and that 'Marie Davenport' is an alias you're using. She made Lisa promise to dig up that report of the hospital visit, the one belonging to 'Marie Davenport'."_

"_Dad," she said, trying to sound calm, "If there's one thing I _can_ tell you, it's that I'm not in Phoenix." Not anymore, anyway, she'd wanted to add._

"_Well good," Carson replied with relief, "good…Because Bess was all set to head up there to investigate herself. But Nancy, I do have some very sad news. We found out the other day that Lisa was in a terrible car accident."_

"_What?"_

"_She was apparently heading home after a late shift when she crashed through the guardrail on an overpass. It was a 30-foot drop."_

"_Oh no, Dad! Is she going to be okay?" Nancy felt as if the walls of the room were closing in around her._

"_No, Nan. Her injuries were just too severe. Bess told me her husband decided to terminate life support. The traffic cops there don't have any witnesses, but they surmise she fell asleep at the wheel."_

_Nancy was extremely distressed at this latest development. That was no 'accident', she realized. Marouelli's men must have found out about what Lisa told Bess! They must have come to Phoenix, followed Lisa and somehow forced her off the overpass! _

_That means Lisa must have gone ahead and pulled up the report of my hospital visit, Nancy thought miserably. That's what they must have been after. If only my gunshot wound hadn't become so badly infected, I would not have needed to see a doctor about it. _

_But as soon as she'd shown Agent Phillips, he had recommended she seek immediate medical attention. Now, because of that action, a friend was dead._

'Joan' wiped a tear away that had slipped down her cheek. If that had been Lisa's fate, what, then, could happen to Frank and Joe Hardy if Marouelli's gang thought they knew something about where she was? She did not want to even consider the possibilities. She only prayed the Hardys would stay on the alert, since she was certain they would not flag in their pursuit of the truth behind her disappearance and supposed death.

The door to the safe house opened quietly, and 'Joan' looked up expectantly.

Agent Phillips entered with some supplies that were supposed to tide her over for the week, or at least until she was able to find a job and bring in a paycheck.

"How goes the job hunt?" Agent Phillips asked with a sympathetic look, realising she must have just been crying.

"Pretty poorly," she replied, forcing herself to respond to his question. "But it looks like there's a spot in the Tenderloin area that might be within my range as far as affordable housing."

"The Tenderloin? Not the safest place to be at night," Phillips observed. "You got your dealers and druggies, vagrants, panhandlers, hucksters…But it is low-income…"

_Dealers…Druggies…vagrants…panhandlers...hucksters..._

"Dealers and druggies…" 'Joan' murmured.

"What?" Agent Phillips asked.

"Nothing, really. I was just thinking out loud. Just thinking I wish you'd take me up on that plan I'd devised to get back home."

"Your 'plan' is dangerous," Phillips remarked dryly.

Undaunted, 'Joan' continued. "Look, I've been running here for a year. I don't know how much longer I'll be able to take it! I talk to my Dad once a week, and I can hear in his voice how much of a toll this is taking on him. I want to get back to my life, Agent Phillips. How much longer until they find me? And even if they don't find me, it's my friends and family that are being hurt the most. It's my friends that are ending up dead. If anything happens to Frank and Joe Hardy…"

"You can't wig out on me, Joan," Phillips said, placing strong hands on her shoulders. "We've discussed this before. Your 'plan' would put you out in the open. Even in the best of scenarios, that's far too dangerous for us to attempt. We are in the business of protecting you, not putting you in harm's way."

"I _know_ that! I know! But how much progress have they made back in Chicago? How can you combat corruption when no one talks, and those that do end up dead?"

Agent Phillips stared at her.

"Please. You have to let me try." She knew she sounded like she was begging.

"Do you have a death wish or something?"

"No," 'Joan' retorted, upset at the insinuation. "But this – this _existence_ – this is no way to live, either. You know I can very easily brush off the Witness Protection Program."

"You do that and we can no longer help you. You know that."

"I know. And I guess that's not what I'm asking. I want to go back to Chicago with your protection."

"Nancy-"

'Joan' was almost startled by Agent Phillips' use of her real name.

"I want to go back. I _can_ do it without you, but I need you and the rest of the Bureau working the case in Chicago to help me. That's the only way we're going to be able to end this, and you know it."

Agent Phillips sighed. "You're really convinced your plan can work, aren't you?"

"Yes, I am."

"You've got to be patient, Nancy. From what I'm getting from my colleagues back in Chicago, we're getting very close."

"Will you at least broach the subject of my plan with them? I'm tired of feeling helpless. Let me take an active part in securing my own freedom."

"I'm not making any promises, Nancy," Agent Phillips said in a warning voice, "but I'll see what I can do. But just so you know, I still think your plan is flat-out suicide."


	9. The Client

**A/N: I know, I know, I know…You're all chomping at the bit to know the details of Nancy's 'plan'. Rest assured, you'll get it – but not in this chapter. It's still too early to give that away. However, I do think this chapter gives one some food for thought. Enjoy, and once again my thanks to those wonderful individuals, anonymous and otherwise, who sent reviews. Warms the cockles of me heart.**

Chapter 9.**  
**

Frank and Joe were on high alert as they made their way to their appointment with Sergeant Joseph MacMillan. Things were becoming more complicated by the minute, and the brothers feared they might never get a clear-cut answer as to who was involved with the threats against Nancy Drew. Added to what they already knew was the insinuation that there were crooked cops on the force actively working with crime boss, Gus Marouelli.

_And who knows how deep that corruption goes, or what those cops do for Marouelli, _Frank thought to himself.

They knew that when they met with MacMillan they'd have to be extremely careful not to betray the knowledge that Nancy was alive and that her last known location was in Greenwich Village in New York. If, as Detective Tom Morrison had so discreetly informed them, MacMillan was on Marouelli's payroll, he would surely send out word of Nancy's whereabouts, and she'd be as good as dead.

Entering MacMillan's office, Frank and Joe greeted the tall, middle-aged black man. His head and face were clean-shaven, and he shook their hands in turn. His large hands made Joe think he could have at one time been an excellent basketball player.

"Have a seat, please," MacMillan said in a genial tone. "And may I say, Joe, you've got a great name."

"Uh, thanks, Sergeant," Joe said with a small grin, "same to you."

"Now, then," MacMillan said, his voice becoming more businesslike, "Sergeant Mahoney tells me you two are looking into the connection between the drive-by shooting involving Detective Drew – God rest her soul – and gang activity."

"Yes, that's right," Frank spoke up.

"I've got the files here," MacMillan said, tapping the thick folder on his desk. "See, when it went down, we knew it wasn't just some random drive-by."

"Why is that?" Frank asked, wondering if MacMillan would actually reveal that the nature of the drive-by was really a contracted attempt on Nancy's life.

"See, the place Detective Drew and her friends were dining at – uh, 'Fatelli's' – seems the owner had been approached by someone in Gus Marouelli's organization about protection. You can read here in the files from the statement Detective Drew gave at the scene…"

Frank eagerly took the file. In his mind's eye, he could see Nancy on that fateful night, her wounded arm treated by paramedics right there, since she would probably have refused to leave the scene until she talked to her colleagues about what happened.

"_I was sitting there, facing the street, when the bullets started flying. I counted seven or eight shots." Nancy stated, when Sergeant MacMillan asked what she remembered. "The car was dark – a blue or maybe black, I'm not sure. Windows were tinted. A sedan."_

"_Well, right now you're the only one from the scene who remembers what the car looked like, Detective Drew." MacMillan responded. "We've spoken with the owner of the restaurant, and he's pretty spooked. He's told us he's been 'offered' protection by Augustus Marouelli's gang."_

"_Let me guess," Nancy sighed. "He refused."_

"_Right. We think what you witnessed tonight was a warning. No better way to ruin business than to shoot up a place and hurt a few customers along the way."_

Frank looked up from the report and passed it along for Joe to read. So MacMillan's going to continue to stick to the 'official' story, he mused. He's going to continue to make us think the drive-by has nothing to do with a deliberate attempt on Nancy's life. The real question of course, is MacMillan deliberately leading us astray because he works for Marouelli, or does he honestly think Nancy is dead?

"Were you ever able to get any concrete evidence to tie Marouelli to the drive-by?" Frank asked, deciding to play along.

MacMillan gave his head a shake. "Nothing. He's very slick. Virtually untouchable. Believe me, we've been trying for _years _to bring him down. But it seems he's always one step ahead of us. When Detective Drew went missing, I think we were all afraid his goons had gotten to her so she wouldn't be able to identify the shooter in the drive-by. That's what Marouelli does: he gets rid of anyone who poses a threat to him. That's why no one ever survives long enough to testify against him. When we found Drew's car in the Lake, it all but confirmed our fears. If you ask me, she was followed after checking out of Mt. Sinai. We know she was on her way to Northwestern to be with her friend's family – the Faynes. I suppose you know all about that by now."

"Yes, we heard," Frank responded.

"And you know, then, that she never made it there. Detective Drew would have never voluntarily vanished. It's true that some people run away from their lives when things get too stressful, but that's not the kind of person Drew was. I also know some doctors figured she might have had some kind of delayed reaction to getting shot, which was why she drove off the pier. But let me tell you – 'til the day I die, I will always swear Gus Marouelli had his men follow her, kill her, and dump her and the car in Lake Michigan."

By now, Frank did not know what to think of Sergeant Joseph MacMillan. Was he trying to snow them? He openly spoke about the terror Gus Marouelli was inflicting on the city of Chicago, and he seemed quite upset about it as well. He also seemed very upset about what had happened to Nancy. It could all be an act, of course, since he'd never willingly reveal he was working for the crime boss. If that was the case, he was doing a very good job. But Thomas Morrison had warned them not to believe a word MacMillan said, hadn't he? Frank decided to keep his guard up.

"Now what about this restaurant owner – Fatelli – what did he have to say at the time?" Joe asked, after skimming the file.

"Carlo Fatelli was completely freaked out about the whole thing," MacMillan replied. "While he admitted he refused to pay Marouelli's thugs for protection, after the drive-by, he sold the place and left Chicago."

"So he didn't press charges," Joe said with a frown.

"He was too terrified," MacMillan said flatly. "Not that I can blame him, really. He didn't want to become Marouelli's latest casualty."

The information provided by Sergeant MacMillan was leading them nowhere, a disappointed Frank thought as they left the station and returned to their hotel for the evening. They needed a break on this case, and they needed it soon. If, as Tom Morrison had suggested, there were corrupt cops, chances were their inquiries into Nancy's 'death' had not gone unnoticed. Those involved would most certainly know that Nancy's death had been faked, and they'd be looking for every opportunity to learn where she was hiding. Those that didn't know would obviously continue to unwittingly perpetuate the story that she was dead.

Either way, it meant they needed to be careful.

* * *

Carson Drew sat on the love seat for a long time after the Hardys departed, lost in his own thoughts. At around three o'clock, it occurred to him he should eat something, as he'd only had a light breakfast at around 7:30 that morning. Food of any kind at this time, however, did not appeal to him. Besides, he was still unused to preparing meals for himself.

Hannah had been away for nearly three months now, and while Carson knew the poor woman really needed the time to herself, he was probably adversely affecting his health by failing to feed himself properly. There was only so much take-out and restaurant dining one could handle before everything started tasting the same.

Hannah Gruen. What a God-send she had been when Nancy's mother died. Carson felt blessed since the day she came to be their live-in housekeeper. She and Nancy had taken to each other so easily, Carson thought. Indeed, Hannah was the mother Nancy never had - the perfect surrogate – perhaps too much so. For when Nancy's 'disappearance' was all over the news, Hannah had despaired her former charge was in terrible trouble. She hadn't wanted to believe that Nancy was dead when the blue convertible was raised from the chilly Lake Michigan waters.

It had been hell lying to her. It made things so much more difficult, especially when the weekly scheduled secure calls with Nancy came. Sometimes, he'd come home and find her weeping in the kitchen. She would invariably say something like: "_She was like a daughter to me…I was always afraid something like this would happen…but I never dared to think it really would…_"

Practically inconsolable, Carson had decided the woman should take an extended vacation to find some peace. At first Hannah had not wanted to leave him, maintaining it felt like she was abandoning him. But in the end, she knew she needed time away from the house and away from the still lingering effects of the tragedy painfully evident in George Fayne's protracted recovery. Hannah had at last packed some bags and left. Every once in a while, she called or sent a postcard from whatever far-flung place in the country she'd found herself at. Lately, her voice seemed to be finding its life again, nothing like the flat, dead tone it had come to sound like in the months when Nancy's supposed fate was constantly in the news.

Carson finally pulled himself up from the love seat with a soft groan. The house was so empty. When Nancy had left to join the CPD and only he and Hannah were there, at least they had each other to make conversation. Now there was no one.

Bess Marvin visited occasionally, although the visits were extremely stressful for Carson. They always seemed more like fishing expeditions than courtesy calls. Bess would at first express her sorrow at losing her best friend, but ask questions in an off-hand manner that were actually thinly-veiled attempts to try to see if Carson was hiding something from her.

Walking into the kitchen, Carson opened the refrigerator in a half-hearted attempt to find something edible. The empty shelves stared back at him, and he remembered he had not been grocery shopping in weeks.

Why did Bess have to be so inquisitive? Must be all those years she spent with Nancy on those cases, Carson thought ruefully. He had to hand it to Bess, though. She was asking all the questions that a good investigator would. Still, he missed the 'old' Bess; the Bess that was perennially dieting, or shopping, or weaselling out of a diet and accessorizing. She was the perfect foil for her no-nonsense athletic and tomboyish cousin, George, and for Nancy as well.

_Which reminds me - the Hardys want to get in touch with them_, Carson thought to himself as he pulled a can of soup from a rather bare-looking pantry shelf. As he heated the meagre meal on the stove, he sat down at the kitchen dinette table with a cup of tea he'd brewed.

It brought back a memory he realised he had forgotten to share with the Hardys, but one that would ultimately do little to help them; only shed further light on the crimes committed by, or at least ordered by Gus Marouelli.

Nearly twenty years ago Carson had been sitting in this same spot, across from a frightened seventeen-year old young man. Wallace Cooper was in trouble, and Carson had been willing to take on his case pro bono.

Wallace had been the wheel-man in a stolen car in a robbery attempt on a bodega, and then in a chase with police. He was arrested along with two others, both of whom fingered Wallace as the instigator in the caper. Released on bail due to what was deemed a low flight risk and minimal danger to the community, Carson had Wallace meet him right here, in the Drew kitchen.

The criminal attorney felt pity for the youth, who claimed he had no idea his two acquaintances were planning the robbery.

"_I like cars, Mr. Drew," Wallace said sorrowfully that early afternoon. "My buddies called me up and asked if I wanted to take a spin in some really sweet wheels. Of course I said yes!"_

"_You didn't ask where the car came from?"_

"_Sure I did. Mikey said his old man had just bought it."_

"_And you believed him?"_

"_Sure, why not? All I cared about was that he was letting me drive it."_

"_What did you think when they asked you to pull up in front of the bodega?" Carson asked._

_Wallace shrugged. "I thought they were going to pick up some booze. I know I'm not legal, but you know how it goes…"_

_Carson nodded and made some notes. "What happened after your two acquaintances came running out of the bodega?"_

"_They screamed at me to gun the engine. The owner of the store ran out after them, yelling some stuff in Spanish. A Puerto Rican guy, or something. So I hit the accelerator and got out of there. Soon after that, we had the cops on our tail. I've never been more scared in my life, Mr. Drew."_

"_I know, Wallace," Carson said in a calming tone. _

"_You can call me Wally, you know," he said, almost shyly. "Everyone does."_

"_Okay, Wally," Carson replied. "I will."_

_They hadn't noticed that Nancy, nearly eight years old, had been hanging around the corner. She came sauntering into the kitchen, just home from school. _

"_Don't worry, Wally. My Daddy will help you. He's the best lawyer in the whole world." And with that, she skipped off._

_Wallace, in spite of himself, smiled at the young child's unspoiled confidence in her father's abilities. It was an innocence he was sorry he had seemingly lost so early in his own life. _

"_Cute kid," Wallace said with a smile._

"_Thank you," Carson said, trying not to show the pride he felt for his only child. "And a little too smart for her own good. She's at that point where she thinks the whole world revolves around her, and that her Daddy can fix everything."_

"_Well, I sure hope she's right," Wallace said with a sigh. "Otherwise, I'm sunk."_

Carson ambled over to the stove to stir the pot. The bubbling liquid made his stomach roil. He really didn't want to eat this, but knew he needed something, even as insubstantial as this broth.

With a ladle, he dumped some of it into a bowl and returned to the table. The late afternoon sun was at a particular angle now, sending blinding rays through a slit in the drapery hanging in the kitchen windows. Carson, however, could not be bothered to rise again to properly shut the drapes. He sat and silently slurped the soup he barely tasted.

With a sinking heart, he recalled that four weeks after news that Lisa Scotti-Turner had been in the fatal car accident in Phoenix, the body of a man in his late thirties or possibly early forties had been fished out of the freezing Chicago River. Authorities believed it had been there for a few weeks at least, and foul play was suspected, as a single bullet wound to the head was listed as the cause of death.

Carson would never forget that the individual was identified via his dental records, revealing that he was 'Wiley' Wallace Cooper, a known felon with several past convictions.

Had that been the point in time he knew Nancy's situation was more dire than he ever dared to believe? While he had managed to secure a favourable verdict for Wallace when he was seventeen, life after that had obviously not treated him well. Wallace had been unable to avoid falling in with the wrong crowd.

Carson knew with 100 percent certainty that it was Wallace Cooper that had contacted him the night of the drive-by. That meant his fears he would be killed if he failed to kill Nancy had come true.

As Carson went over the events point by point, everything fell together in a frightening manner: Firstly, a contract for Nancy's life had been put out, an assignment that landed in Wallace Cooper's lap. In an astonishing move, Wallace did not follow through and instead sent a cryptic warning.

Next, Lisa Scotti-Turner arrived in town with word that she'd possibly seen Nancy. Soon after, Lisa died, in an apparent accident that no one witnessed. Shortly after that, Wally Cooper's body showed up, with a bullet to the brain.

All those strands hung together, Carson knew, showing that Gus Marouelli's people were still very much determined to make sure Nancy was eliminated, and all those who either posed a threat or disobeyed orders were silenced.

Carson only wished he knew _why._


	10. But I Have Promises to Keep

**A/N: A short chapter, with just a little more background stuff - just to flesh things out – again another Nancy-centric chapter. Hope you all enjoy! Things are going to start to move a little faster story-wise, and I promise we'll have the Hardys and Bess meeting up very soon.**

Chapter 10.

"_Why would someone want to kill me?" Nancy asked Sergeant MacMillan in her room at Mt. Sinai. Her father, Carson Drew, had just rushed down with news of the telephoned warning. _

"_We were hoping you could help us out with that," MacMillan answered._

"_I have no idea. I thought it was just a drive-by. I thought the owner said Gus Marouelli's people were the probable cause."_

"_Yeah, we got that bit. But now from the anonymous call your father received, we know it was a calculated attack on you, and not Carlo Fatelli's establishment. Think, Detective Drew. What have you been doing in the past few weeks or months? These people sound like they mean business. They'll kill you if they even _think_ you know something you shouldn't."_

"_I can't possibly imagine what I might know that could be potentially dangerous to anyone! I'm working on the serial case."_

"_I know…I also heard you've just been pulled from that case. We're all very sorry about what happened to Dr. Gray. But please, Detective, try to think about anything strange that might have happened over the past few weeks. Anything out of the ordinary."_

"_You mean besides Debra getting murdered, and me and my friends being shot and possibly killed? No, nothing out of the ordinary." Nancy said despondently._

* * *

It was nearly midnight, and 'Joan' still could not find a comfortable position in her small bed in the safe house in San Francisco. Her mind kept replaying old conversations, giving her no peace. MacMillan had been asking the right question that night in the hospital, of course. At the time, she had been unable to think of anything she had done in the past few weeks leading up to the attempt on her life at Fatelli's.

It just didn't make sense. But then again, that week had been full of senseless events. The county had lost two coroners: one a heart attack and the other a murder. Then the drive-by.

The memory of finding Debra that morning a year ago flooded back in all its horribly vivid details:

She was waiting in their unmarked car as Tom was picking up coffee. They were on their way back to the station after visiting with a potential witness in their case involving the serial killer, and they needed the break.

Nancy's cell phone rang. She answered, and gasped as the caller relayed a very disturbing message.

Tom was at the passenger side, juggling a tray of coffee and doughnuts. He placed the tray on the roof of the car and opened door.

"We just got a call about a homicide," Nancy said urgently. "Tom…it's at your place."

"What?" came his stunned response.

Tom blinked in disbelief. "_My_ house? We're taking this one."

Nancy looked doubtful. "Tom," she asked carefully, "is Deb at work today?"

"I –I think so," Tom stammered, realising the implications of Nancy's question. "I leave before she does. Did you hear anything at all about who the victim is?"

"I don't know who it is yet, Tom. All I know is that there's a body at what has been reported to be your address."

Tom stopped. "Wait, I want to get on the line with whoever is out there at the scene. I don't want _anyone_ going in there until we personally have a chance to secure the scene."

"Tom-" Nancy started.

"Don't say it Nancy," Tom warned. "It's _my_ house. _If _it's…Oh God, if it's Deb…I want _everything_ done right! I won't have some wet-behind-the-ears rookie messing anything up."

"Tom, if it _is_ Deb, they won't let you anywhere near this!"

"Then we're going to be hoping it's not her then, aren't we?"

She looked at him doubtfully, then relented. But inside her thoughts screamed _If it's not Debra, then who else could it be?_

On the way, Nancy drove in silence while Tom contacted the officers who had first responded to the scene of the murder. He was adamant that everything remain untouched until they arrived. He then put in a call to the office of the county Medical Examiner.

"Please pick up, Deb," Tom pleaded under his breath. "Pick up…"

"Cook County Coroner's Office…Hello?" a voice on the other end finally spoke. But Tom instantly knew it was not the voice of his wife.

"This is Detective Thomas Morrison," he said quickly, "is my wife, Dr. Debra Gray there?"

"No, Detective," the person on the other line responded. "She hasn't come in all day. We tried to contact her at home, but there's been no answer. We tried to reach you today, but we were told you were out. Is she sick today, Detective? There's a lot of work that needs to be taken care of since Dr. Vasek-"

Tom hung up on the call.

"What is it?" Nancy asked anxiously.

"She's not at the lab," Tom said bleakly, in a choked voice. "One of the dieners picked up. She said Deb hasn't been there all day."

Nancy knew that trying to say something uplifting to her partner would be futile. Deep in the pit of her stomach, she knew exactly what they'd find when they walked into the house. She just hoped she'd be able to maintain her composure when she was actually faced with the reality of it.

She looked over at Tom. His face was impassive. _Oh, Lord_, she thought,_ it looks like he's in denial. He can't face the fact that we are most definitely going to walk in there and find Deb dead._

"Don't say it, Drew," Tom said in a warning voice.

"Don't say what?"

"I know what you're thinking," he responded. "You're thinking I won't be able to handle it if it turns out to be Deb in there. Well you can just shove that line of thinking. I'm a professional, and I've seen a lot of things in my career. I can handle myself. Understood?"

Nancy gave a curt nod and said nothing else for the rest of the short, speedy drive.

When they arrived, a lone squad car was parked out front. One officer was waiting by the door, and the other was talking to a civilian who was looking quite distraught.

_Probably the person that stumbled upon the body in the house,_ Nancy thought to herself.

A few neighbours were peeking out of their windows across the street, and one that had been walking her dog stopped and came back up the sidewalk when she saw Tom and Nancy get out of their vehicle.

The partners hurriedly approached the officer standing watch at the door.

"'Morning, Officer…Grenfeldt," Nancy spoke as she read his name from his uniform. She flashed her badge. "I'm Detective Drew, and this is my partner Detective Tom Morrison."

"Hello, Detectives," Officer Grenfeldt said pleasantly.

"Officer," Tom said, his voice strained, "no one has come in or out since you arrived on the scene, is that right?"

"That's right, Detective," Officer Grenfeldt replied affirmatively. "Me and my partner there, Officer Jordan, we were out on patrol when that guy – uh, Hugh McCartney, ran out of the house, saw us, and flagged us down. Said he found some lady on the floor of her living room. We came in, saw the body and called it in. Then we got your call immediately after, Detective, telling us not to touch anything."

"Good, Officer…good job," Tom said mechanically. He brushed past the young officer and up the three small front steps towards the front door. Nancy followed close behind.

She noted the front door was slightly open.

"Our pal, Hugh, over there, says he found the door open when he came calling," Officer Grenfeldt called out after them. "He's canvassing for some charity or other."

"Thank you, Officer," Tom replied, "I'm sure you were diligent enough to take his statement down, weren't you?"

Grenfeldt nodded with slight indignation. Satisfied, Tom turned back into the entrance.

They entered slowly. The house felt like a freezer.

"Damn, it's cold in here," Tom muttered, reaching out to the thermostat and adjusting the dial. "Deb usually turns it down when she leaves for work to save on our heating bill- "

The partners peered into the living room, noted the disarray. A lamp was smashed. Cushions were scattered on the carpet. Papers were strewn about, and the telephone had been ripped from the jack.

"_Debra!_" Tom cried out.

On the floor, between the coffee table and couch, lay Dr. Debra Grey. The coils of the telephone were wrapped tightly around her throat. Her green eyes were wide with shock and fear, mouth gaping and tongue stretching out.

"Deb," Tom whispered softly, his voice breaking as he knelt beside the body.

"Don't touch her!" Nancy snapped, realising her partner's mind was not focusing on proper procedure. How stupid of her to think he would have been able to handle this; that they should have responded to this. They were really going to catch heat for breaking protocol like this.

"I'm calling for backup," Nancy said decisively. "You – I want you outside, now!"

"But…I can't just leave her…" Tom whimpered.

"Out!" Nancy bellowed. "I won't have you blubbering all around this crime scene. You'll never forgive yourself if you mess up a crucial piece of evidence."

Tom obediently got up and started for the door. He stopped and looked back one last time. "She must have just been on her way out…That's why it's so cold in here. It's always the last thing she does before she leaves. She always turns down the heat."

_He's in shock,_ Nancy thought with pity, _he's babbling._

But the house did indeed feel like a freezer. The early morning had been extremely chilly, but Nancy knew that by evening it was going to warm up. _The temperamental Chicago weather_! she thought.

She hadn't wanted to say it in Tom's presence, but she already had a sinking feeling that Debra was the most recent victim of the elusive serial killer. The telephone cord was a dead giveaway.

Authorities had purposely released incorrect information about the manner in which the other women had died; the media had reported that they'd all been strangled with 'electrical' cords – not _telephone_ cords.

Nancy took a moment to still herself, calm her emotions and her breathing. She was just beginning to overcome the shock of finding her new friend dead, and knew she had to remain rational. The house was very still. Too still. There was no hum of the refrigerator motor; no buzz of electrical activity from any houselights. Nancy took a quick walk around the ground level of the house. All the lamps in the house were unplugged in the living room. In the kitchen, all the appliances including the refrigerator and stove were also unplugged. In the master bedroom, the television, bedside lamps and alarm clocks were disconnected in a like manner.

All indicative that this was the work of their serial killer – a killer who curiously unplugged all electrical appliances and devices in the homes of his victims.

With a deep sigh, Nancy finally called in department crime scene investigators, and other members of the task force involved with case.

The realisation hit her that a coroner from another county might have to be called in, as now both Dr. Stanley Vasek and Dr. Debra Gray were dead.

A slow anger began to boil within her. The serial killer had crossed the line. He had made it personal. And Nancy vowed she was going to do everything in her power to see that he was apprehended and brought to justice. It was a promise she made silently to her murdered friend.

* * *

As 'Joan' tossed about in the uncomfortable bed, restless and bordering on insomnia, she hoped she would still be able to keep that promise.


	11. And Now Old Friends Are Acting Strange

**A/N: You naughty reviewers! Bad, bad, bad reviewers. Wanting this to be a Frank/Nancy relationship story. Hmm…Isn't it much better to have that 'tension' between Nancy and Frank continue as it always has? Why ruin a beautiful friendship by getting into a romantic entanglement?**

**All I can say is this: enjoy the story! Otherwise, I can very easily turn it from a simple Mystery/Suspense to an Angst/Tragedy. (And don't think I won't!)**

**But seriously, folks. I think if you stick with the story, you just might find everything you want in a Nancy Drew/Hardy Boys story (within the confines of PG story, of course!)…if you behave long enough! Muahahahaaha…ahem.**

**Right. On to the next chapter: one which has some _developments_ I _think_ the Nancy/Frank shippers may have been waiting for, one which I already had planned, but wasn't expecting to use so soon. But ya forced my hand! This chapter is _very_ important. Please enjoy it.**

Chapter 11.**  
**

_In her dream, there was a tall man, standing at a distance. His back was to her, but she could see his strong, broad shoulders; his lean but muscled body. She felt her heart surge at the sight of his dark brown head of hair._

"_Ned!" she called out joyously, and started running to him._

_The man turned around. _

_Nancy stopped short. It wasn't Ned. It was Frank Hardy. Instead of seeing the recognition she was yearning for, those brown eyes were filled with confusion…and something else…_

'Joan' woke suddenly. Groggily raising herself from the small bed, her heart took a disappointing dive. It had all seemed so real. It would have felt so good to be in Ned's arms, even if it was a dream!

What was Ned doing now? Was he still mourning her? Could she really expect him to hold onto some small hope that she was really still alive? That she had survived against all odds?

The thoughts tortured her.

She reflected on the dream. It hadn't been Ned, after all; it had been Frank Hardy. While the two didn't look alike, she had to admit there were striking physical similarities between the two. The 'tall, dark and handsome' label could easily apply to either man. Why had Frank replaced Ned in the dream?

Staring into the darkness, 'Joan' tried to make sense of her nocturnal visions. That expression in the eyes of the dream version of Frank…there was a warmth and an intensity there, she was startled to realise. Impatiently, she lay back down and turned onto her side, convincing herself that she was getting fanciful; it _was_ a dream after all.

_Dreams are irrational, you idiot_, her thoughts whispered in self-mockery. _You're only imagining the attraction. You're in love with Ned, and Frank's in love with Callie Shaw. That's how it's always been; that's how it's always going to be._

Then her thoughts snapped back to the reality of her situation, and she made a mental note to ask Agent Phillips if he had gotten any word about what the Hardys were doing, and if he had made mention of her own plan to his colleagues working the case in Chicago.

With a sigh, she curled up into a fetal position, and again tried to get some sleep.

* * *

It was shortly before 10:00 a.m. the next morning when Frank and Joe pulled into the area designated for visitor parking near the apartment complex in which Bess Marvin resided.

The evening before, Carson Drew had contacted them and let them know Bess was eager to meet, and would welcome a visit from them.

"You'd better watch yourself, bro," Frank said in a teasing manner, as he shut off the ignition. "Bess always was flirty around you."

"Yeah, sure," Joe replied with a grin. "Though I don't think she's willing to see us just because she's desperate for someone to hit on."

True to their word, the pair had resolved not to tell Bess about seeing Nancy in New York. They planned to play out the visit as if they were there to officially offer their sincerest condolences about Nancy's 'death'. Hopefully, they would be able to ask her questions about the night of the drive-by without rousing her suspicions. They also hoped Bess would be able to remember if Nancy had said anything or voiced any concerns that would lead them to a reason why she had been marked for murder.

Frank rang the doorbell, and the brothers waited expectantly for the familiar fair-haired young woman to answer.

The door opened, but instead of Bess, the brunette, George Fayne, seated in a wheelchair, greeted them.

"Frank and Joe Hardy," she said with a smile, and manoeuvred herself backwards to allow them space to enter. "It's been much too long!"

While the two men were fully aware that George now required the use of a wheelchair, it took them a few moments of stunned silence to get over seeing her in that manner.

"Aren't you going to come in?" George asked, a bemused expression on her face.

"Hey, George," Joe said heartily, stepping inside. He felt a rush of sympathy and compassion for her, and bent down to give her a hug and brief kiss on the cheek. "It's really great to see you," he added as he straightened up.

"I'm glad to see you, too, George," Frank said, also offering her a hug and quick peck on the cheek. "We're surprised to see you. Mr. Drew didn't tell us you'd be here as well."

"I had to come," she said, in answer to his implied query. "Bess phoned me up last night to tell me that you were in town. Come on, you can follow me into the living room. Bess will be out in a couple seconds."

The Hardys had to quicken their pace to keep up with George, as she wheeled herself swiftly down the hall into a fairly large area that doubled as a dining and living room, with a small kitchen off to the right.

"Grab a seat," George said, and brought her chair to a halt in a corner that allowed her a view of the entire room.

Frank and Joe chose the leather couch, thinking to leave the matching recliner-type chair for their hostess, Bess.

"So, I guess you guys heard all about our little misfortunes and tragedies," George said matter-of-factly.

Frank looked at her with admiration. He didn't really know what state he expected to find her in, but from all accounts, George Fayne was talking and behaving as if she did not have a disability, or at the very least, was not bitter about it. Dressed in a black tank top, her long, graceful arms looked strong and toned. Her shoulders were heavily muscled, though not unattractively so. Her face had a healthy glow, her complexion immaculate. Quite clearly, she had not let her physically devastating injury prevent her from remaining active and fit.

_Good for you, George,_ Frank thought triumphantly.

"Do I pass the inspection?" asked George with a small smile and raised eyebrow.

"Sorry, George," Frank said, aware that he and Joe had not responded to her first comment, and that they had both been keenly observing her. "It's just that it's still a shock to us. We were totally unprepared for the news that you'd been paralysed, and again, we weren't expecting to see you here today."

"No need to apologise," George said knowingly. "I do appreciate that it's a shock to you. It's been an adjustment for all of us. I know it takes a long time to get used to it."

"George, we're deeply sorry about what happened to you, Bess, and Nancy," Joe said solemnly.

"You've all been good friends to us whenever we ran into each other, for whatever cases fate threw at us," Frank added. "I know I valued Nancy as a friend - so I know how terrible it must have been for everyone when they found her car in Lake Michigan."

George's expression became grave as she nodded in response. "I was still in hospital when they found her car. I can remember that in the weeks before that, I really had no idea what was happening. Nobody would tell me much of anything. I mean, I knew we'd been shot at – I knew the extent of my own injuries and Bess' as well, because Bess would visit when she was allowed to. Nancy never did. I'd ask Bess why, and if Nancy was okay, but she was always evasive."

"What was I evasive about?" came a voice from the hallway connecting to the bedrooms. It was Bess.

Frank and Joe stood to greet her. They embraced each other affectionately in a group hug, and Bess apologized for not being completely ready for their arrival.

Frank and Joe sat down again, and Bess retreated to the recliner. If George's appearance had surprised them, so did Bess', but in a distinctly distressing way. While she was never really 'overweight' in the past, she was still usually on the slightly plump side. The effect of that little 'extra' weight served to make Bess seem more youthful looking. Today, the Hardys could see that Bess had dropped her weight by probably twenty pounds or more. Her face was gaunt, and her blue eyes held none of the sparkle and lively spirit they'd known. Clearly, Carson Drew had understated Bess' obsession with learning the truth about Nancy, and the adverse effect it was having on her health and look.

"So, like I was saying," George continued, breaking the awkward silence, "you, Bess, were reluctant to tell me what had happened to Nancy when I was still laid up and recuperating."

"Her doctors didn't think it would be wise," Bess explained to the Hardys. "They didn't want any additional stress for her."

"We only found out a few days ago about what happened," Joe said. "We wanted to tell you both in person how deeply sorry we are. I know offering condolences a year after the fact is pretty late to be doing so, but we offer them sincerely. Nancy was a great friend and a great detective. We'll miss her."

George shot Bess a concerned look as she muttered something indistinguishable under her breath.

"What did you say, Bess?" Joe asked.

"I just wish people would stop using that word 'was' when talking about Nancy. She's _not_ dead. Until I see a body, nothing the cops, her dad, or anyone else says is going to convince me otherwise."

"Bess, please," George implored. "Don't start this again. You'll make yourself sick, or worse."

Bess clamped her mouth shut and angrily looked away.

Frank and Joe felt like they'd stepped into a long-standing argument.

"Guys, I'm really sorry," George said. "Bess hasn't let go of the possibility that Nan could still be alive, even after all this time."

"Don't talk about me as if I weren't in the room, George," Bess retorted, narrowing her eyes.

"Bess," George said helplessly, "don't you think if Nancy was still with us, we would have heard from her by now? Do you think she'd torture her father and Hannah like that? Would she do that to Ned? To us?"

"She would, if it was too dangerous to make contact with us," Bess shot back.

George shook her head in resignation.

"That's why I'm glad you guys came," Bess said eagerly to Frank and Joe, who were trying to decide how to weigh into the conversation. "You can help me. No one has been willing to look into the possibility that Nancy made herself scarce because her life was in danger."

"Stop, Bess," George pleaded.

"Nancy _must _be in danger, and because of that I think she's in hiding," Bess continued, ignoring her cousin. "Did you hear about what happened in Phoenix? Did Mr. Drew tell you? Another friend of ours swears she saw Nancy there, a girl named Lisa Scotti. And now Lisa's dead, under dubious circumstances, I might add."

"Um, I think he did mention it," Joe said uncomfortably.

"It was an _accident_, Bess," George said, with a tone of exasperation that indicated they'd been over this a number of times.

"They _say_ it was an accident," Bess spat disdainfully, raising her fingers to make a 'quotes' gesture when she said the word 'accident'. "An accident…just like they want us to think that drive-by shooting was an accident. That we were all just in the wrong place at the wrong time."

George dropped her head in her hand in a manner that said, 'here we go again'.

"We know they never caught the people responsible for the shooting," Frank said soothingly. "We spoke with Nancy's commanding officer-"

"Sergeant Mahoney?" Bess said in surprise. "Probably told you that he was really sorry about what happened to Nan and that it was Gus Marouelli's gang behind it."

"Uh, no, he just said it was believed to be mob-related. Sergeant MacMillan and Mr. Drew told us about Marouelli," Frank answered.

"Whatever. If it's Marouelli, and they all know it's Marouelli, why haven't they arrested him? What is taking so long? If you ask me, that's all a smokescreen. Nancy must know something _someone_ doesn't want her to know – whether it's that Marouelli guy or not – and because of it, that _someone_ wants her dead."

"Bess!" George cried out sharply, pounding her fist on her armrest. "_Nancy is gone!_ She's _dead!_ We may never know why, and we may never know how, but we're all going to have to learn to live with it. Why can't you accept it? Why do you continue to torture yourself like this?"

Frank cleared his throat uncomfortably in the ensuing silence following George's outburst.

"We want to help you, Bess," Frank said carefully. "When we heard what happened, me and Joe – well, we resolved to get to the bottom of it, too."

He hated keeping up the charade, but knew he had to.

"Even if it means that at the end of our investigation we find out who was responsible for…for what happened to Nancy…we're going to stick with it."

"But you don't believe that Nancy's alive, do you?" Bess asked, searching Frank's eyes.

Frank, knowing that he would probably reveal his feelings if he wasn't careful, could not hold Bess' gaze and had to look away. Lying through his teeth, he dropped his voice. "No…I don't."

* * *

Frank's cell phone started to ring as soon as they opened the door of their hotel suite. The pair of investigators stepped inside and Joe shut the door as Frank answered the call.

"Hello?"

"Frank Hardy?" a woman's voice queried.

"Yes, this is he," Frank answered.

"Oh, thank God! This is Greta Forzani. You gave me your card a few days ago, remember?"

"Right!" Frank said, instantly recalling the woman who was the manager of the little bistro in New York's Greenwich Village. "What can I do for you? Have you heard from Molly?"

At the sound of the name 'Molly', Joe looked up in interest.

"No, she never came back to work, and I haven't got no answer at the contact number she'd put down in her personnel file."

"Okay," Frank said. "Has something else happened?"

"Yes, something very strange. I thought you should know, since you and your brother seemed so interested in Molly, and because I know you're such great investigators…This afternoon, a man came by asking about Molly."

"Really?" Frank's chest tightened with shock. "Did he ask for her specifically by name?"

"Well, no, he showed me a picture. Asked me if I'd seen her. I said, 'Who's asking?' and he goes, 'Her boyfriend'. So I'm thinking to myself, _this guy_ is the guy Molly broke up with? 'Cause he was sorta shady-looking, you know? Dark hair; slumping shoulders; shifty eyes. I didn't like the vibes I was getting from him. I told him Molly didn't work here no more."

_They know Nancy was in New York!_ Frank's thoughts shouted urgently. _How did they trace her to Greta's place?_

Joe was starting at Frank, impatiently awaiting details of the conversation.

"Greta, did he give you his name or anything at all?" Frank asked.

"Yeah, he gave me a number to contact him at, just in case Molly turned up again, he said. Told me his name was 'Ned', and that she'd left him and he wanted to patch things up with her."

"Could I please have that number?" Frank begged.

"Why, sure! It's 917-555-9264. It's a New York number, so I think he's staying somewhere here."

"Thank you, Greta," Frank said gratefully, "and if he comes back, I want you to call me immediately."

"Is Molly in some kind of trouble?" Greta asked suspiciously.

"Yes, we have reason to believe she is," Frank said. "In fact, if that 'Ned' fellow comes back around, call the police. Tell them he's been stalking Molly, and that he's possibly armed and dangerous. Okay?"

"Oh my God," Greta exclaimed. "How do you know this?"

"It's what we do, Ms. Forzani: we investigate things," Frank ad-libbed, "When Molly took off, we knew something had to be very wrong. We found out some very interesting things about her in the past few days, and we want to help her."

"Well, God bless you fellas for that," Greta said, "Molly was a real nice girl. I don't want nothing bad to happen to her."

"Neither do we. I beg you to be very careful from now on," Frank warned. He didn't want to alarm her by telling her he thought her life could be in jeopardy. But since Greta wasn't the only one 'Molly' had been working with over the last two months, Frank didn't think it was likely Greta would be harmed.

"I sure will, Mr. Hardy," Greta promised. "And you and your brother come back here soon, you hear?"

"We will, Ms. Forzani. Thanks again for calling us – your information has been extremely helpful. Good-bye!"

Frank shut his cell phone.

"What's happened? What did she say?" Joe almost could not contain himself.

"Greta Forzani, it seems, was paid a visit by someone claiming to be _Ned_. He was looking for Nancy. But from the description she gave me, it wasn't Ned."

"No way," Joe breathed. "How on earth did they know to look for her there?"

Frank's heart began to sink. "We've been so stupid! We've only been driving around in a rental car with New York plates for the past few days. Anyone could have noticed that."

"That's true," Joe mused, "but how did they know to look at Greta's restaurant?"

"Well, we paid our bill with a credit card," Frank muttered, deep in thought. "Obviously, whoever is looking for Nancy knows we're investigating. They must have run a check on our credit purchases. That's the only _possible _way they could have found Greta."

"Oh, God, Frank!" Joe said loudly, putting a hand to the side of his head. "Because of that, we led them right to Nancy's last known location! We could have been the cause of her death, and have been totally oblivious to it!"

Frank shook his head. "And that means whoever is behind this is watching _us_ closely. Damn. We've been careless, Joe. If they eventually succeed in finding Nancy, I will never forgive myself!"

"At the time, we couldn't have known, Frank," Joe said reasonably, "we can only beat ourselves up for it for so long. We have to plan now what to do so it doesn't happen again."

"I guess now we know exactly why Nancy ran out that night," Frank sighed miserably. "She knew as soon as she saw us that we'd want to know what had happened to her."

"Then we can at least assume she's not around for this 'Ned' impersonator to find her. That's the good news. What do you want to do next?"

"I'm going to call this number Greta gave me right now," Frank said with resolve. "See who answers."

"Are you sure that's safe? Shouldn't we give it to the CPD?" Joe asked.

"No," Frank said slowly. "I'm not so sure who we can trust there anymore."

"Why not?" Joe questioned, a confused look on his face.

"Something Bess said," Frank replied. "Think about it, Joe: We've heard so far that the cover story for the drive-by was that Gus Marouelli's gang was doing it to scare Carlo Fatelli, because he refused to pay them for 'protection'."

"Yeah…" Joe said slowly.

"But because of the call received by Mr. Drew, we know that's not the case. We know that it was a deliberate attempt on Nancy's life. It was Nancy's extreme fortune that the fellow hired to do the job had his resignations about doing it and botched the job."

"So what?" Joe asked.

"So why does the CPD still insist that Gus Marouelli is involved? What proof do they have that it's _Marouelli_ that ordered the hit on Nancy?"

"You're right," Joe said in agreement.

"I keep thinking about what Nancy's partner, Tom Morrison said – that Sergeants Mahoney and MacMillan were once suspected of being on Gus Marouelli's payroll…What if Nancy found irrefutable proof of that, and then _they _tried to have her killed?"

"It's possible," Joe said thoughtfully, "but why would they point the finger at Marouelli if they were working for him?"

"It could all be a bluff! They can _say_ they think it's Marouelli's gang, but drag their feet investigating him. Claim they're never going to find any proof because he's so 'untouchable', when they never really work to bring him to justice. That way, no one ever looks at them for trying to have her killed."

"That is a very scary theory, Frank," Joe murmured, "and it means we've stumbled onto something we may not be able to handle. If these guys have been able to track our every move, we're not safe. We can assume they know that _we_ know Nancy's alive…"

"I know," said Frank, "and that means we could be in serious trouble."

"Are you sure that making that phone call is such a hot idea after all?" asked Joe.

"Maybe not," Frank answered. "If I do, it wouldn't be too difficult for them to trace it right back to us…"

Just then, the cell phone rang again.

"Hello?" Frank answered.

"Mr. Hardy? This is Detective Thomas Morrison."

"It's Detective Morrison," Frank whispered to Joe.

Joe nodded quickly.

"Good evening, Detective," Frank said. "What's up?"

"We never really got to talk at length the other day. I was hoping you and your brother could meet with me tonight. There are some things I hope we can discuss."

"Sure, Detective," Frank said, "when and where?"

"Uh, I was thinking 'Santorini'. That's in Greektown. You like Greek food?"

"We'll eat anything," Frank said dryly. "How do we get there?"

"It's 800 West Adams Street," Morrison informed Frank. "Can we meet in about an hour's time?"

"Yeah, I think we can," Frank said in affirmation, and hung up.

"So what's going on?" Joe asked.

"We're headed to Greektown to meet with Detective Morrison. Maybe he will be able to provide us with answers as to what Nancy was up to before she had to go into hiding."

"Just the same, I think we ought to be on high alert," Joe said. "I don't know if we should be trusting _anyone_!"

"Agreed," Frank said.

* * *

Navigating for Frank, Joe, from the front passenger seat, held a map of Chicago on his lap.

They had just merged onto the Kennedy Expressway when the engine started racing. The speedometer began to climb as Frank started in bewilderment.

"What are you doing, Frank? Do you want to get nabbed for speeding?" Joe asked.

"I'm not doing it," Frank answered in a confused voice. He took his foot off the accelerator pressed the brake pedal forcefully, but the car continued to increase in speed. "The brakes won't respond!" he cried out in alarm.

Joe was becoming more unsettled. "What's wrong? What's happening?"

"The car's not responding to anything I do!"

"Pull the parking brake!" Joe yelled.

Frank grabbed the lever and pulled – to no effect. "It's seized up! It's not working!"

By now, the speedometer had climbed past 85 miles per hour, and was continuing to climb.

Frank was using all his skill to avoid other drivers who were abiding by the speed limit. Several honked madly at them as the car rushed recklessly by.

Palms sweating, Frank once again tried the brakes. Again, the car failed to slow. He was continuously honking the horn himself now, hoping to alert other drivers that he was barrelling through. The last thing he wanted was to cause an accident, though that seemed inevitable.

They were quickly approaching an exit. The speedometer read 105 miles per hour. Frank flipped on the indicator.

"I'm headed for that exit," Frank informed Joe. The car flew across the road to the right, tires squealing as Frank forced the car to obey the direction he was turning the steering wheel. The centrifugal force pulling them to the left, and Joe held on to the door handle.

They heard the side of the car grating against the concrete barrier. Frank's side mirror was torn off, and it bounced and clattered to the asphalt behind them.

_We're going to die_, Joe thought to himself. _Unless we can stop this car safely, we're going to die. I just hope we don't take anyone else with us!_

The car continued to roar along, despite Frank's efforts to stop it. He tried pulling the parking brake again, to no avail.

To their horror, they were fast approaching a busy intersection. Looking up at the light, Frank's breath caught in his throat. It was red, and just entering the intersection was a large transport truck.

"Hold on, Joe!" Frank cried out, trying to turn the car so they would avoid a direct collision.

"Frank, get your head down, now! Just duck!" Joe shouted in desperation.

There was a deafening crash, and a sickening, scraping sound. The smell of hot metal, rubber and exhaust filled their nostrils as the car's roof and windscreen was caught and mangled beneath the truck's bed.

The truck's brakes moaned loudly. After a series of jerks, it last came to a stop.

Joe opened his eyes. Darkness.

_No pain. This is good. Movement?_ He flexed his fingers and wiggled his toes. Everything seemed in working order.

"Well, I don't think we're getting our damage deposit back," Joe quipped from his uncomfortable position. His head and shoulders were pinned between his knees and the dashboard. He dared not raise his head. He was just thankful he still _had _a head. He knew he could have easily been decapitated.

"Frank?" Joe called out carefully, his voice muffled.

There was no response from the driver's side.


	12. Narrow Escape

Chapter 12.

"Frank?" Joe called out, getting extremely worried. Why wasn't Frank responding?

He tried to raise himself, but something heavy was hindering any upward movement. He thought, perhaps, that it was the upholstered roof pressing down on him. Then Joe realised the heavy mass was warm, and moving!

"Frank!" Joe yelled again. "Frank, can you hear me?"

"Joe..?"

Frank's weak reply brought a sigh of extreme relief from Joe. Frank had evidently thrown himself protectively over his brother just before the collision.

"Hey!" A new voice was calling out to the brothers. "Hey! Anybody in there? Hey!"

"Yeah! We're trapped under here!" Joe bellowed as loudly as he could, knowing the sound of his voice was probably barely audible. He was just beginning to understand how truly fortunate he and his brother were. They'd had so many countless 'close calls' in the past, and this one ranked right up there with the worst of them.

"Can you hear me?" the same voice called out again.

"Yes!" Joe cried out as loudly as he could. "We're stuck!"

"Okay, I'm going to try to get you out!" came the reply.

"Frank, bro, talk to me," Joe said worriedly. "Can you feel anything? Are you hurt?"

"Uhh…My back…Roof's pressing in on me…stuck…"

There was a face at what was left at the passenger-side window. The frame of the door was twisted and the window was in pieces. Their rescuer was holding a flashlight, and was crouching under the bed of the truck.

"You okay in there, mister?" the stranger asked Frank, whose head he could partially see butting up against the door.

"Umm…" Frank mumbled, trying to shake the cobwebs loose. "I think so…I'm just stuck…"

"Well shoot! What in the hell were you thinking, running the light? I coulda sworn I killed you."

"That…well…get us out, and we'll try to explain," Frank muttered to the man, whom he now realised had to be the driver of the truck. He was just starting to feel normal again after the shock of the crash, though his head was pounding.

"Okay," the driver said. "but you're gonna have to work with me. Can you pull yourself up a little? Try to squeeze through this broken window, maybe. This door ain't gonna open." Using the flashlight, the truck driver broke away the jagged edges of glass that still remained in the doorframe.

"Go ahead, Frank," Joe said, "use me as leverage!"

"I don't want to crush you," Frank said in a worried voice. "You're already pinned in there pretty tight."

"You won't! Go on, move!" came Joe's reassuring voice.

It took several painful moments of pushing, squirming and tugging, but Frank and Joe were eventually free of the wrecked automobile with the help of the truck driver. A few scrapes and bruises were amazingly the only evidence of their mishap.

Crawling out from under the truck, they were astonished at the sight of the rental car. Almost the entire upper half of the vehicle was squashed down. They were amazed they'd even been able to squeeze through the narrow opening that had been the window.

The driver was now flashing the torch under the car, and it showed that some brake fluid was slowly draining out onto the road.

"So that's why you boys couldn't stop," he said grimly. "You had some messed up brake lines."

The brothers looked at each other, and they knew the same thought was going through their minds: _Sabotage._

* * *

"I really can't believe you, Bess," George admonished her cousin, after the Hardys had departed.

"Why not? I have every right to do everything I can to find out the truth about what happened to Nancy. I'm just glad that the Hardys were willing to listen, and that they're willing to help me! Finally, someone!"

"You hijacked the conversation is what you did," George said accusingly. "They came here to express their condolences, and you had to rant about how there's some conspiracy going on and that Nancy's still alive."

"And did you see the look on Frank's face when I asked him if he thought she was alive? You'd have to have been blind not to have seen it!"

"What are you talking about, Bess? I heard him say, just like you did, that he believes she's dead."

Bess scoffed. "Oh, I know what he _said. _But it was the expression in his eyes that gave him away! Not only did Frank Hardy lie about believing Nancy is dead, he's also madly in love with her."

George shot Bess a sceptical look. "'Madly' in love? A few years ago, it was just an innocent little crush between the two of them, and it's been years since he last saw her, anyway. What makes you think you know anything about what Frank Hardy is feeling – even if she was still alive?"

"Well, since you asked, I have a very strong feeling that Frank's long-time girlfriend, Callie Shaw, is very out of the picture! Isn't that convenient?"

* * *

"Have you called the police and emergency services?" Frank asked the driver, who only identified himself as 'Sam'.

"Uh, not yet…The crash happened, and I was just about to call when I heard someone yelling for a 'Frank'. Thought my ears were-"

"Good," Frank interrupted, "don't call it in."

"What are you, crazy?" Sam sputtered. "Why? You guys should see a doctor! You shouldn't even be walking away from this…"

"Look, we don't have time to explain," Joe said, understanding exactly why his brother did not want the police around. "Sam, just pretend you never saw us. Okay?"

"But – you can't leave…You can't leave the scene of an accident! Waitaminute! Where are you going!"

The Hardys were already on the move, running as quickly as they could on their unsteady feet. They were trying to put as much distance as they could between themselves and the accident. They hated breaking the law, but knew that leaving the scene would, for now, be the safest option for them.

The unspoken realization that had dawned on the pair was that it appeared someone was not eager for them to meet with Detective Thomas Morrison. Further, that someone was mostly likely a person within the Chicago Police Department - someone who would have known they were making inquiries about the 'death' of Nancy Drew. If they made themselves scarce now, it would be more difficult for those responsible to track them down.

"They tried - to kill us," Joe breathed, as he kept up a steady pace beside his brother.

"But who?" Frank gasped in mid-stride.

"Someone who knew… where we've been… and what we were driving," Joe responded.

Both brothers knew that amounted to any number of officers at the 19th District Station: most notably Sergeants Mahoney and MacMillan, as well as Detective Thomas Morrison. But Morrison had warned the Hardys about the higher-ranking officers, hadn't he? Was that why he had wanted to meet with them? Did he have incriminating evidence about them that he was hoping to share?

"I had a feeling… we couldn't trust any of them!" Frank said, wheezing from exertion, "Look," "there's a diner ahead…I'm going to call Morrison from there…for all we know…they're monitoring our cell phone activity…"

"How do we know…we can trust Morrison?" Joe asked.

"I don't!" Frank answered. "But so far…he's given us no reason…not to! For all we know…Nancy could have confided in him…Maybe…he feels like he can't trust anyone…in the CPD…either!"

They were within a block of the diner when the steady honk of a car made them turn about-face. A navy blue sedan drove past them and pulled onto the shoulder, blocking their progress.

Not knowing who it was, the Hardys made ready for another flight in the opposite direction.

The driver's side door opened, and a figure started to step out. Frank grabbed Joe's arm.

"Let's move!" he hissed, and they started to bolt.

"Wait!" a familiar voice called out. The voice belonged to Sergeant Joseph MacMillan. "Don't run!"

Not knowing whether or not the man was armed, the Hardys decided to obey. His next words shocked them.

"At the risk of sounding clichéd, come with me if you want to live!"

* * *

**A/N: Of course I wouldn't kill _Frank _! I may be cruel to other people's characters, but I very rarely fatally injure them. **

**More heart-felt thanks to you my reviewers! You've all been wonderful – even after that good-natured tongue-lashing I gave you. I still have quite a number of plot developments on the way. I hope you're ready. Here comes the deluge! **


	13. Details

Chapter 13.

Uncertainty spread across the Hardy's faces.

"We're not going anywhere," Joe shouted back. Sergeant MacMillan was halfway out of his car, looking imploringly at them.

"Why were you following us?" Frank demanded, though feeling slightly foolish carrying on a conversation at the side of the road.

"Just get in and I'll explain all I can! But you have to come now! The people responsible for messing with your car will probably be moving in soon to make sure their 'handiwork' was a success."

Frank and Joe didn't know what to think now, and exchanged bewildered looks.

"We're not going anywhere with you! We don't trust you!" Frank shouted. "You'll answer us here and now! Who tried to kill us? Who wants Nancy Drew dead?"

Sergeant MacMillan froze in place. "What do you mean, who '_wants_' Nancy Drew dead?"

Frank stopped short and sucked in a breath. He realised his gaffe: he'd used the present tense.

"So you _do _know Detective Drew is alive!" MacMillan exclaimed. "Look: I know you said you don't trust me. But we've been at cross-purposes here for too long-"

"The only thing we know for sure is that there's been a major cover-up regarding the details of what happened the night she disappeared," Frank said.

"Look here, son," MacMillan said sternly, "_if _you know where Nancy Drew is, my recommendation is you _forget_ about it right now. Forget you saw her. Forget you know her. She doesn't exist anymore, and it needs to stay that way."

Frank and Joe stared at him, dumbfounded. He was admitting he knew Nancy was alive, too!

"Are you two hearing me? You utter one word about that young woman and you might very well be signing her death certificate, and yours in the process. Look what nearly happened tonight! Now please get in! I can keep you safe for at least another few hours."

"Keep us safe? What do you mean?" Joe asked.

"Are you going to stand there all night asking questions, or are you going to come with me? The sooner we get away from here, the better!"

Deciding that they had no other choice but to trust the man, the Hardys, not without reservations, finally climbed into the backseat of the car, and MacMillan drove off quickly.

"Okay, we're in the car," Frank said indignantly, "you owe us some answers, and we want them now! Why were you following us?"

"When you two first showed up, we didn't know what to think," MacMillan said as he navigated the streets. "I was tailing you tonight because I wanted to know exactly what it is you're up to."

"I'm not sure I understand," Frank said.

"I had to know what you were up to," MacMillan said. "I had to know if you were for us or against us. Tonight, when I saw you speeding up, I thought perhaps you'd spotted me and were trying to get away. Then I saw the haphazard way you were driving, I knew you were in trouble. I tried to keep up, but lost you when you made that exit. When I finally got back on track, I thought the worst had happened when I saw the wreck."

"Okay," Frank said, digesting this piece of information. "but that still doesn't explain why you all weren't straight with us when we first arrived."

"When you came here asking about Detective Drew, we didn't know whether to believe your intentions were…on the level. We had to be careful what we told you. You said you were friends of Detective Drew's, but friends can be bought off. Everyone has a price."

The brothers mulled these words carefully, trying to understand what MacMillan could mean by them.

"What do you mean, 'bought off'?" Joe asked.

"Wait a minute…" Frank spoke up, shushing Joe, "you actually thought we came to Chicago because we were hired to track Nancy down for the very people who want her dead?"

"Like I said, we didn't know what to think," MacMillan responded, "if you were really such good friends, it came as a surprise to us that you didn't know she was 'dead'."

"But it's true; we really didn't hear about the drive-by or the 'drowning'," Joe replied.

"I know that now," MacMillan said. "but in the beginning, we were being cautious. Your presence here was unexpected. And asking questions about a case that was officially closed a year ago raised some flags. We didn't want to risk revealing information about Detective Drew that would put her life in jeopardy. For all we knew, you might have been working for the wrong people."

"How could you even think such a thing?" Joe asked, outraged that such a notion could have entered the minds of Nancy's superior officers.

MacMillan sighed. "Everybody has a price. Everybody can be bought. You'd be surprised how easily, too."

"There _is_ corruption in the department, isn't there?" Frank asked quietly.

"Yes," the older man answered solemnly. "and we have our suspects. The FBI has been poking around too, but we've been unable to get anything solid. Only gut feelings and circumstantial evidence. Nothing that could ever stand up in court."

"Sergeant," Joe asked, "what is the deal with Gus Marouelli? Was that all a smokescreen, too?"

"Gus Marouelli," MacMillan said with disdain, "has been the bane of our existence for a very long time. And no, he's not a smokescreen. He is very much a part of the picture when it comes to corruption in the CPD. We know there are moles even in our district, but finding them has been a real challenge."

"Sarge, we know that Marouelli has his hand in a lot of things in Chicago. These cops that are allegedly on his payroll…what do they do for him? Why does he need them?" Frank asked.

"Well, let's see…In a lot of cases, these corrupt cops will look the other way in areas of heavy drug activity," MacMillan replied.

"Sounds like a Vice problem," Frank said.

"To a degree," MacMillan assented. "But that's just the tip of the iceberg. If it was only letting a few petty dealers go without an arrest that was our problem, we'd be doing fine. No, there have been things going on in this town that are a lot worse than that…"

"And they are..?" Frank prodded.

"One of the main reasons we have not been able to convict Marouelli is that those who are lined up to testify against him never live long enough to make it to the witness stand. Some have come close – career criminals who have cut deals with the District Attorney; reduced sentences in exchange for testimony against Marouelli. Some of these snitches simply disappear. Others have died as the result of 'accidents', and some have even died while in police custody."

"Sounds like you have a very serious problem," Frank mused, not at all downplaying the seriousness of what Mac was saying.

"Of course, the deaths that happen in police custody are thoroughly investigated," MacMillan continued, "and they're usually determined to be suicides or drug overdoses; beatings at the hands of other prisoners. Other prisoners don't like informers, see. But we can never prove that a _cop_ was responsible. Only it's just much too coincidental that _all_ the people who are set to testify against Gus Marouelli die before they can."

"You believe Nancy stumbled onto something she wasn't supposed to, don't you?" Joe asked.

"That," MacMillan answered, "is the real reason Nancy had to go into hiding. She knows something she shouldn't. I wasn't privy to that information, so I can't tell you exactly what it is she knows that's so dangerous. My own 'investigation' ended when we whitewashed the whole incident with Nancy's supposed 'drowning'. The ball is in the Feds' court now."

There was a quiet in the car as MacMillan continued to drive towards a destination that was unknown to the Hardys.

It occurred just then to Frank that the man they were supposed to be meeting with, Detective Tom Morrison, had fingered this same man who was driving them as one of those corrupt cops…Why would he do that? Was Tom trying to deflect suspicion from himself, or was he simply repeating rumours that were always flying around the CPD?

Either way, Frank dearly hoped Tom was wrong about Sergeants MacMillan and Mahoney.

"It _has _to be something that happened the week of the drive-by shooting, or around that time," Frank reasoned. "Something Nancy heard or witnessed. Whoever is behind this couldn't risk having her walking around with whatever knowledge it is she has for too long. It would have been too risky for them."

"Exactly," Joe said. "but we've already determined that Nancy was working exclusively on the serial murders."

"Fellas, I'm going to beg you one more time to drop this," MacMillan interrupted. "Let the Bureau handle it. Having you running interference is only going to make things worse. You're already on the bad guys' radar. You could have died tonight. You're lucky I was there when I was."

Frank rebutted. "It was already personal when it was just Nancy. Now after that car accident, it's _really _personal."

"Yeah," Joe added, "this has gone on long enough."

Sergeant MacMillan simply shook his head. "Is there nothing I can say that will dissuade you guys from pursuing this?"

"No way," Frank said. "We're not naïve, Sergeant. We know what's at stake here, and believe me, we've had our lives threatened before."

"Hmm…" Mac mumbled. "are you sure you know what's a stake? You think you can dash in here in the middle of an ongoing investigation that already involves the Feds, just because a good friend is involved and your lives have been threatened?"

Feeling his temper rising, Frank held his tongue for a moment before responding.

"Anyway, it's not even up to me. As private citizens, you guys can investigate your heads off," MacMillan said.

"Um, Sarge," Joe said, "I don't mean to be rude, but where exactly are you taking us?"

"Oh, sorry. Guess I should have told you that. My son has an apartment he uses on holidays and long weekends – he's away at university. It's not much of a place, but it's safe."

"Uh, thanks," Joe said.

"It's painfully obvious you're being watched. It probably isn't safe to go back to your motel."

"Right," Joe agreed.

"Sergeant, is there anything you can tell us about the events of that week?" Frank asked, still not willing to let things drop. "Did anything unusual happen?"

"No, nothing unusual. Not unless you count the untimely deaths of two of our pathologists in the same week. Dr. Grey's murder was definitely an unusual and unwelcome event." MacMillan shook his head sorrowfully. "I wish to God we'd nail that S.O.B…Tom needs the closure."

Frank decided not to mention the meeting with Tom in Greektown that they were obviously not going to make.

"I know that you aren't Nancy's direct superior, but can you get us access to Nancy's case files leading up to the night of the drive-by?" Frank asked. "There's _got_ to be something there; something that will break this case open."

MacMillan breathed out loudly, then turned his head to look intently at them. He turned his attention back to the road, and was silent for a long time.

"I think I can get Sergeant Mahoney to give us a hand with this. I can ask him if he's willing to get the files. Let me just tell you this clandestine operation is entirely against department regulations. If the Commander, or God forbid, the _Chief_ finds out, it's my ass on the line. But I know Mahoney really wants to get his best detective back. He just might agree to something as crazy as this."

Frank felt a rush of gratitude. "Thank you, Sergeant," he said simply. "You can't know how much we appreciate this gesture."

* * *

Early the next morning, they were sitting in the small living room of the apartment belonging to Sergeant MacMillan's son, Barry. They had spent a fitful night trying to sleep, and this morning their bodies were sore and aching, no doubt the result of the car accident the evening before. After a breakfast of coffee and rolls MacMillan had bought from a nearby bakery, the Hardys had one single purpose: to go through everything Nancy had done that would possibly make her a target.

Sergeant Matt Mahoney had rushed over with the pertinent files, and the four men were now going over them with a fine-toothed comb.

Pages and pages of arrest reports, suspect and witness interviews filled the thick files, among other things.

"These are the last few reports Detectives Drew and Morrison filled out the week of the drive-by," Mahoney said. "As we all know very well, there is no obvious connection between the serial case and Gus Marouelli."

"This report here," Joe said, pulling the papers closer to him, "the last arrest they made before the drive-by…two days before it looks…a 'Yuri' something-or-other…they picked him up for possession."

"I remember that guy," Mahoney said. "Small-time cretin. He was found dead in his holding cell."

Frank looked up suddenly. "He was what?"

"Let me see that report," Mahoney said. Joe slid it to him. "Yeah, here's the autopsy report. Cause of death was a drug overdose."

"Drug overdose?" Frank questioned. "I thought they thoroughly search all prisoners."

"Oh sure," Mahoney scoffed. "these guys hide their stashes in _the_ most creative places. This guy could have swallowed something earlier. Could have ruptured in his stomach. You know how it is."

"What are you thinking?" MacMillan asked Frank, noticing the young man was deep in thought.

"Just about what you told us earlier, Sergeant," Frank answered, "how a lot of criminals about to testify against Marouelli end up dead – some even in police custody…Who performed the autopsy on this guy?"

"Hmm," Mahoney flipped to the pathologist's report. "Looks like this one…was actually started by – would you look at that! Dr. Stanley Vasek."

"Hey, isn't he the one that had a heart attack the week of the drive-by?" Joe asked.

Mahoney nodded. "Yep. Right in the middle of…an autopsy report…you know, it just might have been this very one."

"And Dr. Vasek determined that the cause of death was a drug overdose, right?" Frank asked.

"That's right," Mahoney acknowledged.

"Who completed the report on Dr. Vasek's behalf?" Frank began to feel his heart beating faster. This had to be it. _The devil is always in the details!_

"The new guy they brought in to, uh, replace Dr. Vasek and Dr. Debbie Gray. A Dr. Shawn Redding. It looks like his signature there," Mahoney said.

Frank took the report from Sergeant Mahoney. He and Joe looked it over carefully.

"What are you thinking?" Mahoney asked them. "What makes you think this is so important?"

"Well," Frank said, "how long does it take for a toxicology screen to come through?"

* * *

'Joan' awoke the next morning, with the memories of her odd dream still lingering. It had further fragmented during the night, and various details had since been lost. She did, however, remember that it was Frank Hardy, and not Ned Nickerson who had appeared in her dream.

Her head felt heavy, and her eyes sore. It was 9:30 a.m., and she realised she felt hungry. After going through the normal morning ritual of face-washing and teeth-brushing, 'Joan' made her way to the kitchen to prepare a quick breakfast.

Agent Phillips had picked up a carton of eggs, milk, some bread and a small quantity of assorted fruits and vegetables.

She had just decided on having scrambled eggs when the secure line rang.

"Hello, Agent," she spoke, knowing it could only be her watchdog.

"'Joan', I'm on my way over right now," Agent Phillips informed her curtly.

"Why?" she asked. "What's wrong?"

"I've been in touch with my contact with the Bureau in Chicago. I've just learned that the Hardys were in a car accident last night."

'Joan' felt as if her stomach dropped to her feet.

"How bad?" she whispered.

"The car was totalled. It collided with a truck. When emergency crews arrived, there was no one in the car. The driver claims they took off on foot."

"They've been investigating me, haven't they?"

"Yes. And it looks like the bad guys are wise to the fact, too," Phillips replied.

_I knew this is what would happen_, 'Joan' thought miserably. But the fact that the driver of the truck indicated that her friends had evidently escaped serious harm cheered her somewhat. Taking off on foot, though…that meant they were literally on the run, too. Where were they? She prayed they were safe.

"There's more Joan," Phillips said. His voice indicated what was coming next would not be pleasant.

"What is it?"

"Late last night…there was a gas leak at Greta's restaurant. The whole place went up."

* * *

**A/N: Oh, there's lots more to come after this, dear readers. Hold on to your seats! This ride is not going to slow down.**


	14. The Dead and the Trustworthy

**A/N: Sorry for the delay, folks! I had intended to post sooner, but I was mourning the loss of a really, big chunk of story I had all written down for part of the conclusion. It got lost somewhere between a 'cut and paste' operation using MS Word, and I could not get it back. But I am over the depression now, and here is the next chapter! Enjoy.**

Chapter 14.**  
**

"A toxicology screen normally takes four to six weeks to come through," Sergeant Mahoney said, as Frank and Joe continued to look at the autopsy report belonging to Yuri Vladik, the last arrest made by Detectives Thomas Morrison and Nancy Drew.

"Then how could Dr. Stanley Vasek possibly know his cause of death right away?" Frank asked.

All four men looked up at each other, and knew that they had stumbled onto something of extreme importance.

"It looks like this Dr. Redding simply did a perfunctory review of the autopsy report started by Dr. Vasek, and put it to bed," Joe mused, taking a closer look at it. "What reason would Dr. Vasek have for falsifying an autopsy report?"

"Do either of you recall what Dr. Vasek was like? Professionally, I mean," Frank queried.

"He was the Chief Medical Examiner," Mahoney answered. "The guy knew his stuff. Now, those tests aren't cheap, I must say. Ordering them is always going to put a dent in the budget. But falsifying the report? It doesn't make sense."

"Okay," said Frank, "let's look at this Yuri Vladik. Sergeant MacMillan, you mentioned he was a small-time drug dealer. Any connection to Marouelli?"

"If it's drugs, most likely," MacMillan responded.

"Why would Tom Morrison and Nancy arrest him? I thought they were involved with Major Crimes-"

A cell phone started ringing.

"That's mine," Mahoney grumbled. "Hold that thought, Frank."

The three other men quieted while he answered the call.

"Mahoney here," he said. "Yeah…What? When?..Okay…no…I'll be there as soon as I can! This is…this is terrific!… We're sure this time, right? I _knew _that guy had to be our man…Okay…See you soon!"

Frank and Joe noticed that Mahoney was grinning ear to ear.

"What's the word, Mahoney?" MacMillan asked.

"Gentlemen, I just received news that we have arrested and charged the sick bastard we believe to be responsible for the serial murders!"

* * *

"Hang up, and get on the phone to Chicago, _now!_" 'Joan' said, her voice burning with angry intensity.

"Now just a moment-" the voice on the other side of the line became indignant.

"Agent Phillips, either you get on the phone and tell your contact to get in line with my plan or I'm going there myself and doing it on my own! This has got to stop, and it's going to stop now! People are getting hurt, and people are dying – people who are dear to me. If anyone else dies because of my situation, I swear to God, I _will _hold the Bureau responsible! I told you before: I am sick of feeling helpless."

Agent Phillips was silent.

"Well, are you going to help me or not?"

* * *

Sergeant MacMillan let out an enthusiastic shout and pumped a fist in the air at the news of the capture of the man authorities believed to be the serial killer. "Yes! We got a name?"

"A total and completely depraved sicko named Alec Fontaine. They collared him in his car, taking pictures of women in a Chicago suburb, near a health club. They found a concealed weapon in the vehicle, and they're raiding his residence as we speak, where they're finding lots of incriminating evidence as well."

"That's terrific!" Frank said excitedly. "I know you've been after that guy for quite a while. Nancy would be thrilled to know they've caught him."

"So will her partner," Joe said in agreement. "I don't want to be around if those two were ever in the same room!"

"You're right," MacMillan agreed. "The fact that this Alec Fontaine still managed to kill another woman after Dr. Gray – well, you can imagine just how upset everyone was. Including Detective Morrison."

At the mention of Nancy's partner, a thought occurred to Frank.

"Sergeant Mahoney," he said, "before you leave, I have a request."

"What is it?"

"I'd like help coming up with a list of people with access to these files here – as well as people in the Department who know we're in Chicago."

"Good thinking, bro," Joe said. "It could only _possibly _be someone – a mole – in the Department who would have known that we were investigating. They are the only ones who would have access to information about us."

"Yes," MacMillan mused, nodding his head, "what you guys told me last night about the man looking for Detective Drew in New York…someone could have been making unauthorized use of police resources to look into your credit records, and that definitely points to someone in the Department."

"That would be a fairly short list," Mahoney said wryly, "unless you want to count _every_ officer you passed in the station parking lot, hallways, offices…"

"And I strongly suspect your motel room was bugged," MacMillan added, "which would be a very good way to keep tabs on you two, as well as your conversations."

"If we make this list, it's a list that would include _you_ two," Frank said, carefully stating the obvious.

"Of course," MacMillan said amiably. "But I hope we've proven to you that we're on your side."

"I guess we have no choice, do we?" Frank said with a small shrug. "I think if you'd wanted to kill us, you've had more than ample opportunity."

"Okay…Who else?" Joe asked, getting the making of the list back on track.

"Detective Thomas Morrison," Frank said. "There's a big question mark next to his name. He all but accused the both of you of being full members of Gus Marouelli's organisation."

"He did, did he?" remarked Mahoney with a frown.

"We were supposed to meet with him last night, in fact," Joe said. "But we all know what happened to prevent that."

"Did he give you any indication what he wanted to discuss with you?" Mahoney asked, brows furrowed.

"No," replied Frank. "He was being secretive, and I'm starting to wonder…"

"Detective Morrison hasn't been the same since Debra's murder," Mahoney said with a heavy voice. "And he refused to be partnered with someone else after what happened to Detective Drew. He's been reprimanded for missing work a couple times in the past year. All-in-all, his performance on the job has been slowly deteriorating. Look, his accusations against me and Sergeant MacMillan are completely unfounded. They're probably the product of a mind that's sunk into depression and paranoia. Of course he's refused counselling of any kind."

_And round and round we go,_ Frank thought with frustration. While his instincts were telling him that these Sergeants were trustworthy, he could not shake the feeling some things were still being kept in the dark.

"Frank, there was that desk Sergeant you first talked to, when we first called from New York," Joe piped up.

"Oh yeah," Frank said, "a guy named Garrison."

"Hank Garrison?" Mahoney asked in surprise. "He's been here for _years_. He's a pussycat. Trust me, guys; he's got nothing to do with _any_ of this whatsoever."

"Then there was your assistant – we only saw her that one time," Frank said to Sergeant Mahoney.

"Right – Detective Cathy Brunelle. She's been with me for just over two years." Mahoney confirmed.

"And she has access to all kinds of files," Joe said, remembering the time the woman had brought in files about the drive-by shooting.

"Brunelle's clean too, guys. She comes to work, does her job, and goes home. Never a hint of trouble."

"Then we've exhausted our list of potential perpetrators," Joe sighed. "One of these people on this list isn't what they appear to be, unless there's someone unknown – someone we haven't considered. Can we get a list of all the personnel from the district?"

"All the staff, including civilians…won't narrow things down any," Mahoney said in a warning tone. "But I'll get it for you. Now, I gotta be off. Duty calls!"

"Sergeant – wait," Frank called out to the man as he reached the door. "I want to go with you. This guy, Alec Fontaine, the alleged serial killer – how close can we get to him?"

"Why do you ask?" Mahoney asked.

"It may be nothing," Frank said carefully, "but I have the slightest hunch…"

MacMillan spoke up. "I don't think it's safe for you to be leaving this apartment, Frank. No one knows you're here, and I'd like it to stay that way. Going to the station would put you right back in plain sight."

"It's a risk I'm willing to take," Frank said. "Would anyone be brazen enough to attempt something in a police station?"

MacMillan looked as if he was about to say something, then reconsidered. "I guess not," he said with a shrug.

"I'm coming with you, then," Joe said, and got up to join his older brother.

"And I can't force you to stay here," MacMillan said with a sigh. "Mahoney, they're in your hands."

Sergeant Mahoney gave his colleague a salute, and the three were off.

They let Mahoney lead the way out to the back alley where he had parked his car. Joe tapped Frank quietly on the shoulder.

"What is it?" Frank whispered.

"Did you notice that there were absolutely no pictures or personal effects in that apartment?" Joe said under his breath. "Sergeant MacMillan said it's his son's, but what college-age guy doesn't leave his mark in his own apartment, even if he doesn't use it all that often?"

"You fellas coming or not?" Mahoney called out to them.

"I wouldn't worry about it, Joe," Frank replied quietly. "But I do think there's a lot more to Sergeant MacMillan than he lets on."


	15. Point of No Return

Chapter 15.

The non-stop flight to Chicago was both nerve-wracking and consoling to the woman whose ticket was in the name of 'Joan Foster'. She knew full well she was heading into what was perhaps the biggest test of her life – and that it was all hinging on a plan that she herself had conceived. If she was successful, she would be safe at last. If she was not successful, then all would be lost.

_Either way,_ 'Joan' told herself, _this is the _last _time I'm flying on a plane under a name that does not belong to me. Everything ends tonight!_

* * *

Everyone was abuzz at the 19th District. The news that they had apprehended the person they fully believed to be responsible for the murders of eight women spread quickly through the ranks.

Officers had been watching Alec Fontaine for several months based on a tip from a citizen concerned that he had been secretly photographing women at a fitness club.

The fact that all of the victims in the string of murders had all belonged to gyms or were health and fitness enthusiasts caused authorities to take quick notice of Fontaine's activities.

At his residence, which forensics experts were still turning over, incriminating evidence of his heinous crimes was being found, including several hundred photographs of dozens of young women. Among them were images of many of the known strangulation victims.

Lieutenant Victor Matheson and another member of the task force, Detective Eric Singh were presently questioning Fontaine, who seemed quite unaffected by his arrest, and was maintaining a cheerful disposition.

"So, Mr. Fontaine, why'd you shut off all the appliances, huh? Turn off all the lights? What are you, some kind of energy conservation freak?" Lt. Matheson stared down at the accused.

Thirty-two years of age, Fontaine had short, closely cropped black hair. He was clean-shaven and wore a black crew-neck sweater and jeans. At Matheson's question, he simply shrugged.

"The white noise distracts me from my _work_, Lieutenant. I can't do my best work when it's all buzzing in my head like that. And those women only deserved the _best!_"

Matheson and Singh shook their heads in disgust.

Sergeant Mahoney, along with the Hardys and a few other members of the task force were watching the interrogation from the adjoining room. Frank couldn't help but think that Nancy would have loved to have been here, watching this proceeding through the two-way mirror.

A sudden commotion from the hall outside got their attention.

Detective Thomas Morrison had just stormed into the hallway, purposefully making his way towards the interrogation room. Sergeant Mahoney murmured an expletive under his breath.

"Excuse me," he said gruffly, and stepped out quickly to intercept Morrison.

"Hold on there, Tom," Mahoney said sternly, blocking his way. "Where do you think you're going? This is _not_ your case, remember! Back away and turn around."

"Sarge, don't do this to me. I want to look at him. I want to see the son of a bitch that killed Deb. I want to be the one to tell him that he's never going to see the light of day ever again. I want to tell him to _rot in Hell!_"

"Are you sure that's _all_ you want to do? Tom, I don't need any more 'police brutality' reports from this Department. Whatever thoughts you're thinking about harming that guy, get rid of 'em. Walk away. _Walk away, Detective!_"

Still fuming, Tom backed down and stomped down the hall and out of the building.

Oblivious to what had just transpired outside, Lieutenant Matheson was pacing, trying to not let the expression of cool detachment on the face of the handcuffed man seated at the table further infuriate him.

"Look at them, Mr. Fontaine: Sharon Burlington. Toni Hayes. Carolyn Brewster. Tara Bartkiewicz. Jeanne Weir. Eve Stillson. Debra Gray. Lynn McEwen…"

The man in custody reached his cuffed hands over the table, his fingertips reaching for the photographs of the eight women spread on the table.

The smiling faces were all somewhat similar in appearance. Framed by heads of dark hair, all the women were attractive and healthy-looking, and were between the ages of 23 and 36. Carolyn Brewster had been the youngest, Debra Gray the oldest.

"My, my," Fontaine said, gazing at the pictures contemplatively. "They're lovely, aren't they?"

"_You_ killed them all!" Matheson seethed.

"Mmmm…interesting," Fontaine murmured with a soft smile playing on his lips. "Yes. I surely did take their lives. They're all mine… All except - _this_ one…"

Fontaine's right index finger tapped the glossy photo of Dr. Debra Gray.

"Somebody else had the pleasure of doing this one. Shame. I might have liked doing her myself. Not _quite_ my type, you know? She looks slightly older than what I usually go for."

Matheson frowned in confusion. A scowl formed on Singh's face.

Fontaine moistened his lips. "But who knows? A woman of her level of maturity and beauty might be even nicer…"

Eric Singh pounded his fist on the table. "Cut the crap! We know you killed Debra Gray to rub it in our faces. You were mocking us; taunting us. We've got you for these murders now, Fontaine. Give it up! Confess to _all_ of them."

Fontaine drew his hands back towards his chest and interlocked his fingers.

"As I said quite clearly to your friend, Lieutenant Matheson, you brain-damaged reject," the killer growled at Singh with contempt, "I most certainly killed those other seven women in those photos. But that 'Dr. Gray' – someone else is responsible for her. I would say you have a copy-cat on your hands."

Detective Singh looked disgustedly at his prisoner as his loathsome features curled up into a grin of satisfaction.

"Isn't that wonderful? I have a fan out there who wants to imitate my handiwork. You know what they say: Imitation is the sincerest form of flattery!"

Lieutenant Matheson felt his face getting hot. He wanted to wipe that smirk off Fontaine's face, but he restrained himself.

In the room adjoining the interrogation room, Sergeant Mahoney turned away from the two-way mirror.

"If Fontaine didn't kill Dr. Gray…Who did?"

"He's messing with us," one of the detectives said dismissively. "He knows Dr. Gray was married to a cop. He's denying it because he wants to torture us with it."

"We're going through his 'stash' of photos he took of the all the women he was stalking, and of the 'trophies' he stole from their homes," another detective countered. "So far, we can't find anything to connect him to Dr. Gray."

"But everything was there…all the evidence added up, even down to the telephone cord," Mahoney said uneasily. "The newspapers and other media only said it was 'electrical' cords. Plus, all the household appliances and electrical things were turned off or unplugged. That detail never made it out of the Department. So either we have a leak, or Fontaine has a partner in crime."

"No. I don't think it's an accomplice, and I highly doubt there's a copy-cat," Frank Hardy spoke up. "But I think I do know who killed Dr. Gray, and I think I'm beginning to know why. But we have to move fast. This information does _not_ leave this room. And have Fontaine under guard 24-7, got it? If what I believe to be the case is true, they'll try to kill him."

* * *

Sergeant Joseph MacMillan remained for several hours in the apartment after watching Mahoney and the Hardys depart. After receiving a series of cell phone calls and making some of his own, he ventured out himself. Things were finally reaching the boiling point, and by moving quickly, perhaps tonight everything he and many others had been working for would finally come to fruition.

* * *

The in-flight movie was something she had never seen before, but 'Joan' had no interest in watching it. Her thoughts were focused solely on the task ahead of her, and how all the events of the past fourteen months were finally building up to this one particular moment in time.

She felt so much older now, somehow. She remembered the youthful excitement and energy that she had when she made Detective and was partnered with the experienced veteran, Tom Morrison. With a heavy heart, she also remembered the jogs she used to take with his wife, Dr. Debra Gray.

The last time they'd gone for a jog had been the day before the drive-by shooting – the day before Debra was murdered. 'Joan' recalled Deb had been uncharacteristically quiet, as if she was distracted and weighed down with too many conflicting thoughts.

In the aftermath of finding her body, as other colleagues had arrived on the scene to take over, a seemingly shell-shocked Tom had asked how Debra had been on that excursion.

'Joan', with crystal clarity, replayed that conversation in her mind:

"_Nancy, did Deb seem worried in any way yesterday? I mean, was anything bothering her?"_

"_Isn't that what I should be asking you? I'm sorry Tom, nothing specific. But she did seem distracted…worried." _

"That's exactly what I mean…Worried. How so?"

"_She said it was probably just stress over having to work double time to take care of Dr. Vasek's workload until they could get in a replacement. She seemed grateful she was able to get away for the half hour to have a jog with me. You know how she liked to keep fit."_

"_That's all? _I mean_, she didn't say anything else?" Tom pressed._

"_If there was really anything else, she didn't confide in me. Tom, I'm so sorry."_

She had embraced him then, fully expecting him to break down. She was crying by then, allowing herself that release. But Tom had remained, unmoving, stony in his silence. He had then gone off alone, and sat in the car. She remembered the heart-wrenching sobs she heard when she went to check on him, and turned away to let him grieve in private.

When was it that she had started to worry, herself? When had the real reason she was targeted for death break through to her conscious mind?

The federal agents involved with her initial removal and protection had asked her to seriously consider everything that had happened that week…When was it that the arrest of that petty drug dealer, Yuri Vladik, had started to ring some warning bells in her head?

And what about Tom's reactions to finding Debra and his insistence that she must have just been on her way out because the thermostat had been lowered? Both events had to be connected, and the key had to be the apprehension and subsequent death of Yuri Vladik.

_She remembered it had been October 8th - two days before the shooting and Deb's murder, that Tom had spotted Vladik, trudging down the sidewalk, seemingly minding his own business. The two detectives had been out that week, trying to obtain as much information as they could from leads tied to the serial case. Upon seeing Yuri Vladik, however, Tom had slowed down, and pulled their unmarked car over to the curb._

"_This won't take long," he had told her, as he climbed out._

"_What are you doing?" Nancy had called out. Tom waved her off and quickened his pace to catch up with Vladik._

_Realising from the decrepit area of town they were in probably indicated that Vladik was a drug dealer, Nancy couldn't help but wonder what her partner's interest in him was. She got out of the car and sauntered up beside Tom._

"_We're not Vice," she had said quietly. "We have other things to worry about, remember? Like the serial case."_

_Yuri Vladik had protested loudly when Tom put an arm on him._

"_What the hell is this? You can't touch me!" Then more softly as if he didn't want anyone to hear, "I've got protection."_

"_Yeah, I know all about you being a snitch," Tom said. "But you're also violating the terms of the agreement you made with the CPD. You're out here, dealing again. That's not good, man."_

"_Dealing? You got no proof! Hey! Lady, tell your partner to back off." Vladik whined to Nancy._

"_Tom…" Nancy had looked up at him questioningly._

"_Drew, I know you're no stranger to playing detective, but you've still got a lot to learn when it comes to handling these street parasites. Chicago ain't River Heights! This piece of scum thinks he can play things both ways."_

"_You can't do this! I've got my rights! You can't arrest me! You've got nothing on me!"_

"_Oh yeah? What's this?" Tom reached into Vladik's jacket pocket and produced a little pouch. It was full of a white substance that Nancy knew was most likely cocaine. "Let me guess, this is baby powder, right?"_

"_Hey man, that ain't mine! You know it ain't!" Vladik was now in an extreme state of panic._

"_That's what all you morons say. And you know what? I'm sick of it. Shut up and get in the car! You're under arrest for possession with intent to sell."_

"_You can't do this!" Vladik howled._

"_Watch me!"_

_Nancy had felt helpless to intervene._

It was later that afternoon that Yuri Vladik was found dead in his holding cell. His body had been taken to the morgue, where Dr. Stanley Vasek had performed the autopsy. Sometime in the middle of the paperwork, he had suffered his fatal coronary.

'Joan' knew that her friend, Dr. Debra Gray, had needed to cover the workload of Dr. Vasek and hers as well, until a replacement could be brought in – and that extra work would have included the completion of the report of Yuri Vladik's autopsy.

_It was that awful twist of fate that was ultimately the reason that Debra was killed_, 'Joan' thought sadly, as the plane soared over the clouds en route to Chicago, _and it's high time someone confronted Thomas Morrison about it._

* * *

**A/N:Yeah, some of you saw that development coming...kudos to you if you saw through my attempts at subterfuge. But the best is yet to come! Stay tuned...**


	16. The Best Laid Plans

Chapter 16.

Detective Morrison had left the station and gone directly to a bar frequented by other police officers. After spending several hours downing drinks with some colleagues who were celebrating the capture of Alec Fontaine, Tom finally decided he had his fill of people saying he could now put Debra's murder behind him.

By now, he knew that news reporters would be hungry for the 'human interest' stories – sound bites from family members and friends affected by the evil deeds of Alec Fontaine. Tom knew he would probably be the top of that list. As a result, he figured he ought to avoid his home altogether, in case there were reporters waiting there to spring on him. He had no desire to be quoted as the grief-stricken husband who had been devastated by his wife's death; no desire to rehash the 'tragedy' of his being helpless to protect his wife even though he was a cop.

_Devastated indeed_, Tom thought with distaste.

_Of all the dumb luck that Dr. Stanley Vasek had to pick _that day_ and _that autopsy_ report to drop down dead! _Tom thought. It nearly brought all the carefully laid plans of Gus Marouelli and his organisation crashing down.

They'd had such a nice little set-up: the cops on Marouelli's payroll making arrests of individuals set to testify. It wasn't too difficult to get in to a holding cell, kill the prisoner and get out in a matter of minutes. As Chief Medical Examiner, Dr. Vasek was the ace in the hole for Gus Marouelli. He ensured that all the bodies of the dead prisoners came his way, and then would list a false cause of death, so that no officer was blamed or investigated.

But with the Yuri Vladik case, Debra had caught on. She knew something was amiss when she read Vasek's unfinished report that listed illicit drugs in Vladik's system that had caused an overdose

_Sloppy! _Tom fumed to himself as he drove around._ How could Vasek have gotten so sloppy! Debra had known right away that those findings were an impossibility, as the toxicology screen would not have been available for several more weeks._

Tom still remembered the night of October 9th when she had come home late, troubled, and made the mistake of confiding in him her suspicions. He'd tried then to assuage her fears; told her she was being paranoid and was probably too overworked. He'd lain awake for long hours, planning what he could do to make sure Debra had no further opportunity to tell anyone else. If she managed to investigate further, it would come out that he was the arresting officer. That would raise more questions…and they'd then look more closely at all the autopsies Dr. Vasek had performed on detainees that had died in custody. Clearly, if Debra was allowed to live, things would unravel...

_At around 4 a.m. the morning of October 10th, it dawned on Tom he could probably kill Debra and make it look like she'd been a victim of the serial killer. After all, he knew all the inside details. It would be the perfect diversion for everything else that had happened. Of course everyone would focus more on a serial killing victim – especially one so closely linked to the Department – than they would on a petty drug dealer's death. The plan was perfect – except for one factor – and that was Nancy Drew. Tom knew she and Deb had gone out for a quick jog the previous afternoon. Had Debra told Nancy anything? Tom would have to find out. _

_While Debra sat on the couch by the coffee table reading the newspaper the morning of October 10th, Tom had come up silently behind her. He picked the telephone up off the cradle, and pulled the cord taut in his hands. He bent over her and kissed the top of her head. _

"_Good morning," she'd murmured, and tilted her head back to look up at him. It was the last thing she ever said. _

_By 6:42 a.m., Debra was dead, strangled with the telephone cord. In the end, Tom knew she must have realised what was happening and why. He was slightly surprised that he felt a little remorse, because taking payoffs from Marouelli had long since dulled his conscience. Still, they had been married for nearly ten years. It was just too bad she had become a threat to that security._

_After unceremoniously shoving the body between the couch and coffee table, Tom had quickly set about making the house look like a disaster area. The newspaper he scattered about the living room; cushions he threw to the floor. Then he realised he had to try to make it impossible for forensics personnel to establish a time of death. By dropping the thermostat, he hoped Debra's body would cool at a faster rate than normal. If anything, it would be his word establishing that she was still alive when he left for work at his usual time of 7:00. In another fifteen minutes, he had shoved aside the heavier appliances and disconnected the bulky plugs from the sockets, as well as the other electrical devices in the house._

_Later in the day, he planned to nonchalantly stop by the house and 'discover' the corpse, at which point in time he'd return the thermostat setting to its original setting, further obscuring evidence that would help pinpoint time of death. He'd hoped to do it alone. Only things had not worked out that way._

_Because the man canvassing the neighbourhood saw the door was open, Debra's body had been found much earlier than Tom intended. And he had been forced to make up some fib to explain why he'd touched the thermostat, since Nancy was watching his every move like a hawk. _

_That had been the point in time when Tom knew Nancy would most definitely become a liability. She would question his every move. She would know something was wrong with how Deb had died. She would begin to suspect _him.

_So, Tom had called in a favour from Gus Marouelli. _

'_I've done everything you've ever ordered me to, Gus, and now I need some help from you. I need you to get someone to kill my partner. I know where she's going to be tonight. If it doesn't happen now, she's going to eventually figure everything out, and you know what that will mean!'_

And they're _still trying _to kill her, Tom thought angrily as approached his neighbourhood. She was like a cat on steroids! But eventually those nine lives get used up, Tom decided mirthlessly, and any day now he hoped to get word of his former partner's demise. It was nearly 11:00 p.m., and he was finally pulling into his driveway, confident that by then any reporter would have given up and gone away to make their deadlines.

He approached his front door, keys in hand. He was slightly alarmed to note the door was unsecured when he inserted the key in the lock. His hand went instinctively to his sidearm. Gently pushing the door open, he pulled the weapon from the holster.

"I'm a police officer!" he called out, stepping inside cautiously. "I'm warning you, I'm armed! Come out, now, with your hands showing!"

Brandishing his gun, he felt for the light switch and flicked it on.

The living room was suddenly bathed with light. Seated quietly on the sofa was Nancy Drew.

"What the – what the hell are you doing here?" Tom sputtered, instantly training the gun on her.

"Surprised to see me, Tom?" she asked, tilting her head to the side.

"Oh, I knew you were alive this whole time, Drew," Tom sneered, recovering quickly from the shock of seeing her there. "I'm just surprised you had the guts to show up here like this. What the hell do you want?"

"I'm sick of running," Nancy said simply. "I want in."

"You want 'in'?" Tom repeated with a snort. "In on what?"

"Gus Marouelli's operation."

Tom started laughing, a deep guttural laugh. "You're serious? What is this, the 'if you can't beat 'em, join 'em' mentality? We try for over a year to get rid of you, and now you want to be a part of the organisation?"

"Like I said before, I'm sick of running," Nancy replied calmly. "I _miss_ Chicago, Tom. I miss my job, and I miss my family and friends. I miss my boyfriend. Now, if you'll lower the gun, perhaps we can talk like civil human beings."

"No way," Tom hissed, keeping the weapon pointed at her head. "See, I could kill you right now, and all my problems would be solved."

"You could, but then there'd be all that forensic evidence splattered everywhere. You'd have a very difficult time explaining away a dead body in your living room." She almost said 'another' dead body.

"Are you sure about that?" Tom challenged. "I can claim I thought it was a burglar; a trespasser."

Tom's face crumpled into an expression of total devastation and grief. He raised the pitch of his voice, adopting a tone of anguish.

"_Oh God, what have I done_?" he whimpered, "_I didn't know it was Nancy! How could I have known? I didn't mean to kill her! I thought it was an intruder! What have I done_?"

False tears formed in the corners of his eyes.

Nancy stared at him with a mix of horror and loathing. His play-acting was disconcertingly convincing. It was exactly the kind of performance he had put on when they'd discovered Debra's body.

Tom's grin was sinister as he wiped the moisture from his eyes. "I don't think there will be too many people who will doubt me, do you? After all, you _are_ in my house without permission."

"Look, Tom, you _know_ I can be an asset to Gus Marouelli's operation. My record's clean. No one will ever look my way if something stinks in the Department. I want my life back."

Nancy could see the wheels in Tom's head starting to turn.

Tom realised that it couldn't have been easy for his former partner to be on the run for the past year, knowing that there was a contract on her head. "How do I know this isn't some elaborate bluff?" he asked sceptically.

"If you get me into the organization, I swear I will never breathe a word about Deb," Nancy said. "That's what you're worried about, isn't it?"

Tom narrowed his eyes, mulling over Nancy's words.

"Frankly, Tom," Nancy continued, "I'm a bit insulted you never even tried to recruit me into Marouelli's gang. You just sent a hitman after me, never even trying to see what we could have worked out. For all you know, I might have been very happy being on his payroll in return for my silence."

Was she telling the truth? Tom wasn't sure. Nancy Drew truly was a cop with a clean record. She was a _good_ cop; a moral cop. One who would rat out the corrupt ones. But perhaps that year on the run had done a lot to change that true-blue, honourable and upright attitude. Perhaps she really was coming to the realisation that playing by Gus Marouelli's rules was best for her long-term health and survival.

"Okay, let's say I get you in," Tom said, lowering his gun slightly. "You're supposed to be dead. I mean, everyone not involved with trying to kill you thinks you're dead, anyway. How are you going to explain your, uh, extended absence?"

Nancy shrugged. "Amnesia works for me. Maybe it's the result of shock following the shooting. Post-traumatic stress disorder, perhaps. Or maybe I was mugged that night when I tried to get to Northwestern Hospital. Smacked on the head, causing the memory loss, and the people responsible stole my car and eventually dumped it in Lake Michigan."

"And you've just been wandering around in a daze ever since?" Tom said with a smirk, his voice indicating he thought the notion was a decidedly absurd one.

"Why not? Stranger things have happened. Now put the gun down, Tom, you know we can make this work. We can be partners again. Bring me in to work for Marouelli. Besides, I just heard they've caught the man they all believe to be responsible for the serial killings, including Debra's. You think they'll believe him when he says he didn't do it?"

"You've really got guts, you know that?" Tom said, shaking his head as he lowered his piece and re-holstered it. "I'll see what I can do, Drew. No guarantees just yet, but I'd say it's a done deal. But if I _ever_ catch wind of an investigation that looks to tie me to Debra's murder, I swear your obituary will be front page news, and this time it'll be for real. Got it?"

"Got it," Nancy said with a curt nod.

The front door flew open suddenly, and in stormed a dozen law enforcement officers. The first one tackled Tom Morrison before he could even cry out in surprise.

"And now, I've got _you,_" Nancy said triumphantly.

"What the hell is this?" Tom bellowed, struggling against the agent that was restraining him.

"I'd read you your rights myself," Nancy said to him, "but since I'm officially dead, I'm not sure how legal that would be. See, I want to make sure everything is done by the book. The wire I'm wearing got our entire conversation. I think it's pretty incriminating, don't you?"

"You bitch!" he screamed at her, trying to pull away from the solid grip the arresting officer had on him.

"You swore you'd get the man responsible for Debra's murder," Nancy said serenely. "Congratulations on a job well done, Tom. I hope they put you away for a very, very long time."

Tom grunted an unintelligible response.

"Give him the Miranda Warning and get him out of here," Nancy said to the officer that was cuffing her former partner. As Tom was herded out, she took a moment to collect her thoughts and check her emotions. She sank into the couch, and realised it was that very piece of furniture Debra Gray had been found lying next to.

_I'm sorry it took me so long to get him, Deb, _Nancy thought, _but now at last I think I can move on. Rest easy, my friend, I miss you._

* * *

From inside one of the surveillance vehicles parked nearby, Frank and Joe Hardy were celebrating.

Sergeant Mahoney had been reluctant to let them ride along for this operation, but eventually gave in. He acknowledged that Frank's keen and timely speculation that Alec Fontaine was not responsible for Dr. Gray's murder allowed them to coordinate their efforts with Federal Agents who were assisting Detective Nancy Drew with her plan.

Frank decided that Dr. Debra Gray must have reached the same conclusion he had – that Yuri Vladik had most likely not died of a drug overdose. Vladik, in fact, was a drug dealer-turned-informant, and was getting ready to help law enforcement agencies build a solid case against Augustus Marouelli.

Evidence was now beginning to reveal that Dr. Stanley Vasek, the victim of the untimely heart attack, was working for Marouelli. When corrupt cops like Tom Morrison arrested individuals that were supposed to be helping authorities get to Marouelli, their deaths in police custody were routinely covered up by Dr. Vasek.

Frank hadn't been able to see her, but just hearing Nancy's voice as she had spoken into the wire mike sent a rush of energy through his body. Best of all, she was _back_! She had the courage to return to set things right with a brazen gambit that could have easily gone wrong.

With mike still transmitting, they could hear that Nancy was busy talking to some officers while Sergeant Mahoney escorted his former subordinate to a waiting police van parked on a side street near the house. Several officers who had lent their assistance to the FBI looked on with contempt as their former colleague passed by.

"She did it, Joe," Frank said to his brother. "She's come through this ordeal and she's helped secure a very important figure in the list of corrupt cops in the CPD."

"Do you think Morrison will roll on Marouelli?" Joe asked.

"The District Attorney will probably offer him a reduced sentence in exchange for the identities of the other dirty cops and evidence that will bring about a conviction for Marouelli. Not all that great for getting real justice for Dr. Gray, but in the long run, it will mean that a whole crime organisation will be toppled."

"I guess it's now up to the rest of the CPD to keep _Tom_ safe…we know from experience what happens to those who try to cross Marouelli." Joe said.

"Right," Frank nodded his head. "I somehow don't think they're going to drop the ball on this one. With what Nancy knows, I think things are going to turn out just fine."

"You know, Frank," Joe said hesitantly, "now that she _is_ back in town, she's going want to get back with Ned Nickerson."

"I know," Frank said, somewhat glumly. He continued to sit there, listening on as Nancy shook hands and exchanged greetings, giving celebratory hugs to fellow detectives and officers she had not been able to see for such a long time. They were all so delighted she was alive; thrilled that they now had an excellent chance of bringing a crime boss to justice with the arrest of Thomas Morrison.

It was a reunion Frank longed to share with her, as well.

"We can kill the feed now, right?" Nancy's voice came through their headsets. "We have all we need."

Frank and Joe realised she was talking about the wire transmission, and the sounds being picked up at last went silent.

"Want to go get re-acquainted with an old friend?" Joe eagerly asked Frank.

Frank looked thoughtful, then shook his head. "No. Let her have her time with her friends from the Department. I want us to be able to have our own space when we meet again. We can catch up with her at the station."

"Suit yourself," Joe said with a shrug. He realised his brother was possibly a little anxious about facing Nancy again. Frank probably didn't want to let his emotions get away from him, especially if he feared his feelings wouldn't be returned.

"I'm gonna get out of the van," Joe said, "just for some fresh air."

"Fine." Frank replied.

Joe opened the door and jumped down, looking on at the small crowd still surrounding Nancy.

Sergeant Mahoney called out to her. "Hey, Drew, we gotta roll! I know you can't wait to book your 'prisoner'!"

"I'll be right there," she called back. She bid her colleagues farewell, and hurried off to the van that held her former partner, Tom Morrison, who was shackled in the back.

Frank finally jumped down beside Joe, and the two watched as Nancy climbed into the front passenger side of the armoured police van.

Something inside Frank made him want to run after it, to tell Nancy he was here, that he was glad she was safe, and that he felt a little more than a simple crush for her, but he held back.

"Hey, Hardys," the driver of the surveillance vehicle called out to them. "We're moving. We're expected back at the station pronto."

"Okay, we're coming," Joe called back, as the armoured police van started up and slowly began to move off.

The Hardys were in mid-turn when the van exploded!

**A/N: …As soon as you all stop screaming, just remember that this is only a fictional story. And it isn't over yet, either! So stay tuned for the concluding chapters of Who's That Girl?**


	17. Just Like Iola

Chapter 17.

At first Frank was unable to comprehend what had happened. They had seen Nancy step into the armoured van. It sat there for a few moments, then the engine started up and it slowly began to move off. Just as they were turning, the deafening explosion rocked the quiet neighbourhood. It set off a cacophony of car alarms and the frenzied barking of dogs, while heat from the blast rushed swiftly towards them and engulfed them. Flaming pieces of metal were still falling to the ground.

Joe's yells snapped Frank back to reality: "_Oh my God!"_ he kept repeating over and over.

"_Nancy!_" Frank cried outat the top of his lungs. He broke into a run, heading straight for the twisted shell of what was left of the police van, still ablaze. Thick, black smoke poured from the inferno, the acrid smell assailing their nostrils. An arm grabbed for Frank and forcefully restrained him, spun him back around.

"Frank, what are you doing?" It was Joe.

"I have to get to Nancy," Frank said, his eyes wild with desperation. "I have to help her!"

"But – there's nothing _left_, Frank," Joe replied simply, sadly, shaking his head.

"No," Frank whispered, sinking to his knees. Joe knelt down beside him, but said nothing more, knowing there were no words he could say to comfort his brother.

Frank remained like that, oblivious to the chaos around them. Agents and other officers were scrambling about, trying to understand what had just happened, trying to decide how to put out the fire without destroying evidence.

Someone in authority eventually approached them and told them to get up and move aside; that they needed to clear the area. Procedure, they were told, due to fears that there could be secondary explosive device.

"We have to move, Frank," Joe said, and pulled his brother up and led him away. Frank, almost in a trance-like state, obediently followed. They stopped when they reached the lawn of a neighbourhood home.

"She's gone Joe," an expressionless Frank finally spoke in a voice that was flat and devoid of emotion. "Just like Iola."

**AN: Once again, please don't scream too long. The story is still not complete. Sorry it's so short. The next one will have more, I promise.**


	18. Enemy Territory

Chapter 18.

Cathy Brunelle, known to one and all at the 19th District as Sergeant Mahoney's assistant, was smiling.

"Mr. Marouelli," she said, "I think you're going to like what's on this tape."

"I trust tonight was a smashing success, Detective Brunelle?" the crime boss asked from his perch on his imported leather armchair. He was a middle-aged man with a deceptively endearing smile, and eyes that could instil trust or fear in a person, depending on his intent. Gathered in his palatial home were five other individuals, consisting of certain members of his organization. They were all awaiting the revealing of the contents of the tape Brunelle had recorded earlier that night.

Nodding in response to Marouelli's question, Brunelle produced the videocassette, and handed it to one of Marouelli's lackeys. He, in turn, inserted the tape into a waiting combination TV/VCR, kept in a pricey mahogany cabinet. Remote in hand, Brunelle hit the 'Power' button, bringing the unit to life.

"The lighting wasn't that great, so I'm afraid the picture quality won't be all that wonderful," Cathy stated apologetically. "However; I did get everything you'll ever want to see."

A grainy image of a suburban neighbourhood street slowly materialized on the large television screen. The view was from an upper room obliquely opposite the Morrison residence, and the camera lens zoomed in to focus on some activity at the front door. Thomas Morrison, handcuffed and struggling, was being led out of the house. Officers around him were jeering at him, their dislike plainly obvious.

"Let me skip ahead to the best part," Brunelle said, noticing that Marouelli had shifted in his seat, indicating he was already growing impatient. She pressed the 'fast-forward' button, and the picture on the screen blurred and fragmented as the tape sped ahead.

"About…here…" Brunelle pressed the 'Play' button again, and the picture snapped back, showing that the camera was now panning to the left, locked on the figure of a young woman who was quickly making her way to an armoured police van.

"I know it's a little hard to see since it's parked on that dark side street," Brunelle said ruefully, but I promise things will be lit up brighter than a Christmas tree in just a couple seconds, right when I threw the switch."

All eyes in the room were riveted to the television. The armoured van's engine roared to life, and its wheels slowly began to turn, advancing it a few feet. Then in a blinding flash, it was obliterated. Bright flames were shooting from the wreckage, and law enforcement agents were dashing about in a state of panic and confusion.

"Bravo!" Marouelli clapped twice in delight. "Well done, my dear; with just the kind of efficiency I love. We've managed to kill two birds with one stone. There is no doubt in my mind that Tom Morrison would have turned on us, thereby destroying all our hard work…"

The others in the room nodded in agreement.

"And that _Nancy Drew_," Marouelli's voice was scornful, "that one has been a thorn in our collective side for far too long. I think we can all breathe easier tonight, my friends: the double-threat of Tom Morrison and his nosy partner is over."

Augustus Marouelli turned to look at one of the individuals in the room. "Sergeant MacMillan, you've proven yourself beyond a shadow of a doubt that you are worthy of this organization. Thanks to your timely tip about the return of Detective Drew, and what would surely have been Tom Morrison squealing a confession before the night was through, we were able to ensure our enemies didn't gain the upper hand. Welcome to the fold! As we say in Italian, my house is your house."

Joseph MacMillan looked a little embarrassed by the crime boss' praise. "Uh, thank you, sir," he stammered. "I look forward to an enduring partnership with this organization."

"And you, my dear," Marouelli said, turning to Cathy Brunelle, "it was on your word alone that I was supposed to trust our newest member here. Your instincts were true. Thank you for a successful recruitment."

Brunelle bowed her head slightly. "It was my pleasure, sir," she replied. "Now what would you have me do with this tape? Perhaps you want it as a souvenir?"

"Oh, heavens no!" Marouelli replied with a grimace, waving his hand. "Destroy it. Get rid of it. That's the only way to stay in business in this world. Never leave any evidence. Never leave a trail that can lead to you. That's how you remain untouchable."

"Of course, sir," Brunelle said, ejecting the tape from the VCR. "I'll see to it that it's trashed." She returned it to its case and put it into her shoulder bag.

"I trust that those two private investigators from New York will be dealt with as well? Now that Tom Morrison is out of the picture, we don't have anyone else keeping an eye on them at present. I was most _unimpressed_ that they managed to survive their little car accident."

"I think we can cover them," MacMillan piped up.

"Good, good. That's what I want to hear. You've got a pretty good rapport with them already, haven't you?" Marouelli asked.

"Yes, sir, I do," Sergeant MacMillan answered. "But I think now that Detective Drew, Tom Morrison and Sergeant Mahoney are out of the way, the Hardys have nothing at all to go on anymore. There's no one left to help them. My guess is they'll return home very soon."

The crime boss looked skeptical. "I'll give you the benefit of the doubt on that one, Sergeant. But if it becomes necessary to eliminate them, I trust you'll do it in a timely manner."

"Of course, sir."

"Excellent! That's the kind of initiative I like to hear from my eager new recruits! Now, I want for you two to return to your comrades in the Department," Marouelli commanded. "Be with them in their time of need. Go grieve with them. It will look suspicious if you're not there in the aftermath of this 'tragedy'. And remember: arouse no suspicion. Give them no reason to look your way. I don't want you two to ever discuss 'business' while at the station. It's your trustworthy characters that make the both of you so perfect for the needs of this organization. Capische?"

"Yes, sir," MacMillan and Brunelle answered in unison.

"Good. Be on your way." He waved them off, and the pair retreated to the door exiting the room.

The remaining four individuals from the organization stayed put, standing at strategically placed points in the room, arms at their sides in an attitude of attention. Augustus Marouelli reached over for a crystal tumbler of brandy on the table by the side of his armchair. He poured a liberal amount into a glass and was about to take a sip when he heard a loud voice command him to put it down, remain where he was, and raise his arms in the air.

Weapons trained on the still seated and momentarily stunned crime boss, Cathy Brunelle, Joseph MacMillan and eight Federal agents charged swiftly into the room. The four members of Marouelli's organization quickly drew their own weapons even though they knew they were outnumbered.

"Catherine; Joseph," Marouelli addressed the pair in plaintive tones, "would you mind explaining this sudden betrayal? Who are these men?"

"Shut up," Brunelle said tersely, keeping a wary eye on the four enemy weapons.

"Stand down," MacMillan ordered Marouelli's underlings. "We don't need this to get ugly. Drop your weapons and face the wall. No one needs to get hurt tonight."

The four men looked to their boss for instruction, but he remained silent. With a sudden motion, he jerked his elbow and connected with the crystal brandy decanter. It tumbled to the polished oak floor and shattered.

The abrupt noise was all the distraction that was needed.

The subsequent firefight was over in less than a minute.

"Cease fire! Cease fire!" MacMillan's voice rose above the commotion when he saw all four lackeys were down, and that Gus Marouelli was huddling on the floor next to his armchair.

Walls and furniture were peppered with bullet-holes, and the hot smell of gunpowder clung to the air.

MacMillan strode towards the cowering man and ordered him to stand up. "Augustus Marouelli, you are under arrest for conspiracy to murder. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can, and will, be used against you in the court of law. You have the right to an attorney. If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be provided for you."

"We have some agents down," a low voice spoke in the ensuing silence. MacMillan looked up from handcuffing Marouelli. To his dismay, he saw that the uninjured agents were attending three injured ones. He felt a stab of panic when he realised Cathy Brunelle was one of the three requiring aid.

Backup agents were on the scene now to assist, and MacMillan palmed the crime boss off to the nearest one. "Get him out of my sight," he said with disgust, and then rushed over to his ally.

"How are you doing, agent?" MacMillan asked guardedly as he knelt by Brunelle's side.

Still prone and unmoving, the woman's pained expression nevertheless revealed that she was very much alive.

"Um…Feel like I've been kicked by a horse," she whispered feebly.

"Looks like the Kevlar vest stopped the bullet, Brunelle," the agent checking her out commented with relief. "It's gonna leave one helluva nasty bruise to be sure. You're gonna be fine, but we'll let the paramedics check you out, okay?"

Brunelle nodded weakly.

"And so ends a two-year, deep undercover assignment, huh?" MacMillan remarked with a small shake of his head. "Be proud of yourself, agent. Mission accomplished."

Brunelle managed a slight grin. "Thanks, Sarge. But it's we who should be thanking you. If you and Sergeant Mahoney hadn't come to us back when you did with your suspicions, we might have never been able to infiltrate Marouelli's gang when we did. Don't forget we wanted to get him, too."

"I think Mahoney's going to miss you as his assistant. Any chance we can convince you to stay on in Chicago? They've got enough agents in D.C.," MacMillan said warmly.

"I've got a life waiting for me back in Washington, Sarge, but if I'm ever back here, I'll be sure to drop by the 19th."

"We'll hold you to that, agent," MacMillan replied, "and thank you for everything. The risks you've taken over the past couple years have most certainly not been in vain."

* * *

The capture of the notorious leader of one of the most powerful gangs in Chicago came too late to make the next morning's editions of the city's major newspapers. But the headlines screamed his arrest in later editions, and it was all over radio and television news spots.

The Chief of Police was quoted as saying that the arrest of Gus Marouelli and the toppling of his organization was a fine example of how well the FBI and the Chicago Police Department could cooperate, sharing information and resources to obtain a common goal.

"_I think too often the impression is that the two law enforcement agencies compete against each other. Not so in this case_," came the Chief's sound bite. "_I want to express my gratitude to all the officers and agents who put their lives on the line so that we could make our great city that much safer_."

* * *

At the 19th district station, there were mixed feelings of shock, sadness, and triumph.

Frank and Joe Hardy were on hand to witness all the reactions of the officers.

Triumph, of course, over the fact that Gus Marouelli was at last in custody. It was only a matter of time before people like Tom Morrison would finger those under him. They, in turn, would be pressured by prosecutors to turn state's witnesses. Now that Marouelli was out of commission, the threat that he posed in the past was greatly diminished.

Many felt sadness, due mostly in part to the knowledge that Detective Thomas Morrison was one of the dirty cops. His traitorous position as well as the revelation that he had murdered Dr. Debra Gray left many of the officers upset and shaken.

At last, there was surprised, joyful shock that Detective Nancy Drew, believed to be dead, was actually alive and back in Chicago.

With the news reports on television broadcasting the footage of the exploding van, courtesy of the Federal Bureau of Investigation and the Chicago Police Department, many were clamouring for an explanation as to how Sergeant Mahoney, Detective Drew and Detective Morrison survived.

"You'd think Sergeant MacMillan would have let us in on the whole thing," Frank said, not unkindly, as they stood chatting with some detectives they'd gotten to know that had been on the serial killer task force.

"They wanted all the reactions to be genuine for the benefit of Agent Cathy Brunelle's little home movie," Joe piped up.

"How'd Gus Marouelli know that they were moving in on Tom Morrison in the first place?" Lieutenant Vic Matheson asked.

"Simple," Frank answered. "Sergeant MacMillan told him. He was the liaison between the FBI and the Department, and it was the perfect opportunity for a sting operation."

"See, Cathy Brunelle's been working as a double-agent for the past two years," Joe explained. "The FBI sent her out here to see if she could find the moles in this district after Sergeants MacMillan and Mahoney went to them with their suspicions someone here was working for Marouelli. Pretty soon, Tom Morrison recruited her."

"She got very good at getting Marouelli to trust her," Frank added. "He's always very paranoid about being caught; about evidence being traced to him. He apparently checks anyone who enters his home thoroughly for electronic bugs and wires. But quite recently, he stopped checking Brunelle quite as thoroughly. It looks like he may have been developing something of a crush on her.

Early yesterday afternoon, MacMillan got a call from an Agent Phillips – the agent who was handling Detective Drew's witness protection arrangements. Evidently Nancy had given him an ultimatum: she was coming back here to confront Tom, with or without Bureau assistance."

Lieutenant Matheson whistled. "That is one gutsy young lady."

"Anyway," Frank said in continuation, "MacMillan informed Brunelle of Nancy's plan. She realised they'd have one shot and one shot only - if they were going to make everything work. By following along with Nancy's plan to arrest Tom, they could also use that to snare Marouelli. Brunelle knew if she could get him to order the killing of both Tom and Nancy, and hopefully get it on wire, they'd have enough evidence to arrest him. They could worry about other charges later."

"So, the whole exploding van number, that was all for the benefit of showing Marouelli that his orders had been successfully carried out?" Detective Eric Singh asked.

"Right," Joe answered, "as well as one last opportunity for Marouelli to incriminate himself by confirming he wanted Tom and Nancy dead. They also hoped to get him for his recruiting of Chicago Police Department officers."

"But, just how did they get _out_ of that van?" Lieutenant Matheson asked.

"It's easy to escape from an exploding vehicle when you _know_ it's going to explode," Frank said. "They parked that van right next to a manhole cover. It was parked in such a way that the camera would see them getting in, but not out. Even from our vantage point, we didn't see them slipping down into the sewers."

The officers listening to the story shook their heads.

"Sleight-of-hand at its very finest," one of them commented. "We're going to have to start to call Drew 'Houdini' from now on!"

"Where is she now?" Detective Singh asked.

"Some big de-briefing," Frank said with a sigh. "We're waiting to see her ourselves, but it _is_ getting late…"

"It is," Joe said in agreement. He knew Frank was impatiently waiting for a chance to see Nancy, but they themselves had some loose ends to tie up. "We really should get going, Frank. We need to make that meeting with the car rental insurance person."

"Right," Frank said with distaste. "That won't be pleasant. I wonder if they'll buy 'attempted murder' as the reason the car's got brake lines that are shot, not to mention the fact it's a total write-off?"

"Don't let us keep you, then," Lieutenant Matheson said. "You guys take care, though I'm sure this isn't the last we'll be seeing of you."

The brothers were about to turn to leave when they saw the tall figure of Sergeant Joseph MacMillan exit one of the meeting rooms.

"Sergeant MacMillan," Joe called out.

"Hey, it's the Hardy boys!" he said with a grin, greeting them both with firm handshakes.

"Are they finished with Nan – er, Detective Drew, yet?" Frank asked, a little more eagerly than he desired.

"Almost," MacMillan answered. "Mahoney has some things he'd like to go over with her before she's done. It's been a very long 24 hours for her; for _all of us_, really. I was just about to head home myself and crash."

"We can't thank you enough for everything you did for us, Sarge," Frank said, "and for Nancy."

"You're welcome," he replied graciously. "Though I think we also owe _you _thanks for coming up with that information about Dr. Vasek. It was the one piece to the puzzle we were missing, and it will certainly help to cement the case against Gus Marouelli and all the corruption in the Department."

"I had one question, Sarge," Joe said, "that place you took us to after our car accident…it wasn't your son Barry's apartment, was it?"

"Of course not," MacMillan said with a small laugh. "It was a 'safe' house. I don't even have a son named 'Barry'. I'm not even married."

"I knew it! When we first met, I remember thinking your hands were a great size for a basketball player. Then when you said it was your son's place, the mental image of your hands came back, and there wasn't a wedding ring in that picture… Not that you can't have a son without being _married _first," Joe said sheepishly, "but you just strike me as the kind of guy who would do things in the proper order…"

MacMillan raised a bemused eyebrow. "Thanks, Joe. I'll take that as a compliment."

"Joe was just suspicious at the time, that's all," Frank said with a smile, trying to salvage the conversation. "He noticed that the apartment was quite bare: not at all the kind of decor one would expect from a collegian."

MacMillan nodded in understanding. "You guys really are excellent investigators. I'm just grateful you were on our side for this one! If you ever want to join the force, the CPD would love to have you. And on that note, I'm off."

""Bye, Sarge," the brothers said, and watched him depart.

"We should go, too," Joe said, looking pointedly at his watch. Frank looked back down the hall longingly, hoping to see that Nancy was perhaps finished with her series of meetings.

"We'll see her soon enough, you know," Joe said. "Bess is _already_ arranging a big 'welcome back, Nancy' celebration. And we're going to be late for our appointment if we don't shove off now."

"I know," Frank replied. "I just…never mind. Let's go."

_You just wish you could see her sooner than later,_ Joe mentally finished his brother's unspoken thought. _For your sake, Frank, I hope that reunion is everything you want it to be. _

* * *

"You wanted to see me, sir?" Nancy said, upon entering Sergeant Mahoney's office. She had just finished the last of the meetings with the teams assigned to prosecute Thomas Morrison and Augustus Marouelli, and her evidence against both was taken down for the record.

"Yes, have a seat, Detective Drew. This isn't anything official, so be at ease."

"Thank you," she replied, sitting down opposite her commanding officer.

"I've said it before, and I'll say it again: It's damned good to have you back with us!"

"It's good to _be_ back, Sergeant."

Sergeant Mahoney leaned back in his chair and was silent for a few moments, causing Nancy to fret that he was about to give her some bad news. Finally, he spoke:

"I know you're probably exhausted from everything that's happened, Nancy…far be it from me to bring something up that would be unpleasant and cause you undue distress," Mahoney started, his voice carrying an edge of unease, "but there's something I think you need to see."

"What would that be?" Nancy said carefully, trying not to sound too worried.

Sergeant Mahoney pulled out a manila envelope. "I know how much you've punished yourself for what happened to your friends the night of the drive-by, especially Miss Fayne being paralysed."

Nancy involuntarily stiffened. _George, paralysed…and it's my fault!_

"Open it," Mahoney instructed, shoving the envelope towards Nancy. "I think after you see what's inside, perhaps you'll be able to let go of a lot of guilt, if not find a little peace."

Sliding her fingers under the flap, Nancy opened the envelope, and reached inside for its contents. Her hands closed around a stack of photographs, which she pulled out and placed on the desk. Looking at the one on the top, a familiar dark-haired woman appeared.

"They're…these are all pictures of George, before she was…" Nancy said in confusion, as she flipped through them. Her alarm began growing as in each shot George seemed totally oblivious to the fact that her picture was being taken. In fact, Nancy was quite sure all the images were obtained in a clandestine manner during various times George was out jogging or running.

"I don't understand," Nancy said apprehensively. "Who took these?"

"The man you swore you'd get for the serial murders," Mahoney answered quietly, "Alec Fontaine."

Nancy could not stop the gasp from escaping her throat.

"Flip a couple of them over," Mahoney said. "Fontaine made notes to himself about all the women he was photographing and stalking. It looks like he was quite fixated on your friend."

Hands shaking, Nancy peered at the tiny, finely written cursive handwriting belonging to the sociopath.

"_You're next." _The first note ominously read on the earliest image.

All carefully dated, each message Alec Fontaine wrote to himself about George Fayne became increasingly distressing and horrifying as time progressed. On the most recent photo, dated October 6th of the previous year, Fontaine had started to detail his plans tosubdue and kill the object of his latest obsession.

"Oh Lord," Nancy whispered in disbelief. Then she read the addendum to the note detailing the murder plot, written eight days later on the 14th of October:

"_Where have you gone?"_ it read.

"We found _this_ among his various scrapbooks that he kept of his, uh, exploits," Mahoney said, passing Nancy an article Fontaine had snipped from the Chicago Sun-Times. It was the article that reported the drive-by shooting, and full-colour reproductions of herself, Bess and George accompanied the by-line. With bold red marker, Fontaine had circled George's picture.

"_Too bad,"_ Fontaine had written in the margins, "_we could have had a lovely time together._"

Nancy shuddered, placed the piece of newsprint softly on the desk, and brought her hands to her face. All at once, she felt like weeping and laughing.

"You have to ask yourself now, Nancy," Mahoney said gently, "which fate is worse? I think I know which one Miss Fayne's family would say. As her close friend, I think you'd agree that losing a fully mobile George Fayne is infinitely better than losing her to a madman like Alec Fontaine."

Wiping away a tear that had escaped, Nancy nodded. "Yes," she said, "it is. Thank you, Sergeant."

* * *

"Hey, Drew!" called Lieutenant Matheson. "You just missed your friends."

Nancy had just left Sergeant Mahoney's office, feeling bone-tired and more physically, emotionally and spiritually spent than she had ever felt in her entire life.

"Which friends?" she found the strength to ask.

"Frank and Joe Hardy," Matheson said.

"They were here?" Nancy asked in surprise.

"Yeah. Sorry you missed them."

"I'm sorry I missed them, too," Nancy said, more to herself than to Matheson. So, Frank and Joe had been here, waiting for her. She hoped that they had forgiven her for her deception back in New York. Knowing that their lives had been placed in jeopardy due to her situation was still upsetting to her, even though they were all okay. Fighting back the keen disappointment she was experiencing at not being able to see Frank and Joe, Nancy stepped out of the station house, the feeling of freedom to walk outside without fear washed over her. It was a small comfort, though she further consoled herself with the knowledge that tomorrow she would be reunited at last with all her loved ones.

* * *

**A/N: THIS chapter, dear readers, was another one of the chapters my computer ATE some weeks ago, and I've been slaving over it to re-write it just they way I wanted. (We're still not quite done the story yet, of course.)**

**And to all of you who merrily skipped ahead to see how Nancy escaped, NAUGHTY, NAUGHTY! Go directly to jail, do not pass Go, and do not collect 200 dollars. Just kidding. Actually, I'd just ask you to go back to the start of the chapter to make sure you got all the details I so painstakingly worked on.**

**My thanks once again to all those who have reviewed and left encouraging comments. Two more chapters to go now, folks! Thanks for sticking with me for so long.**


	19. Where Do Broken Hearts Go?

**A/N: I feel so sad we're near the end of this adventure. Here comes the hard part: I wish I could, but I can't please everyone.**

**To Lisa: thanks for your wish list (and your enthusiasm!) I'd already decided long in advance how I was going to end things. So, to take a page from msnancydrew's book: "I won't promise anything, though, because I'm sure to disappoint someone..."**

**I just sincerely hope that I've been true to the characters, and that my dear readers won't hold it against me if Nancy doesn't 'end up' with the individual they wanted her to. (Don't forget – there's always the 'dead Nancy' alternative!) Remember, too, that this is an AU. Perhaps in another universe, things might have turned out differently. THANK YOU all for all the support once again. You've been a fanfic author's dream, and it's been a pleasure to have been able to entertain you all for the past few months.**

**There is but one, final chapter to come after this, and maybe even some scenes that did not make the final cut of the story.**

Chapter 19.

She promised herself she absolutely would not cry when the taxi pulled into the curved driveway and would remain composed when the familiar brick house came into view, when she was reunited with everyone.

"Hello, Dad," Nancy said, trying to keep her voice steady as the front door flew open, revealing a tall man whose face showed he had perhaps known a little too much pain and loss in life. His eyes, on the other hand, were shining brightly.

"Daughter," Carson's voice was full of warmth and love that no words could ever express.

Parent and child embraced, weeping tears of joy and relief.

"Let me look at you," Carson finally said, gazing at Nancy. "My girl is home at last. My girl is safe. Oh, sweetheart, I've missed you so much."

Nancy looked back at her father, and was cut to the heart to see how much older he seemed, knowing that the extra grey in his hair and the deeper creases that lined his forehead were the result of his agonizing over her placement in witness protection. She could see his unspoken thought behind the gaze in his eyes: _You're all I have left_.

"I've missed you, too, Dad. I love you so much. I'm so sorry for everything. This whole year of hell; for worrying you to death…"

"Shhh," Carson whispered soothingly, "don't ever be sorry for the actions of others. Tom Morrison was a crooked cop. Your sense of justice helped bring a crime lord down. But you're alive, and you're back. You're the most precious thing to me, Nancy, but I learned a long time ago that I'd have to let you go. I learned I could never protect you from everything."

The rattling of a key in the lock and the opening of the door made them turn in surprise.

"Hannah!" Nancy cried joyously, recognizing the figure standing in the doorway. She eagerly rushed to her. The older woman instantly dropped her bags and suitcases and gathered her former charge in her arms.

"I couldn't believe it when I heard you were alive," Hannah wept happy tears. "I'm still finding the whole thing so fantastic! Oh, thank God you're back with us! You can't know how I prayed there would be even the smallest chance you were okay, and now here you are. Nancy, how I've missed you!"

"You've been like a mother to me, Hannah," Nancy said affectionately, now freely disregarding the tears that were falling, forgetting her earlier resolve to remain composed.

"Oh, child, you've been like a daughter to me. Even though I didn't give birth to you, I've loved you like a daughter. And I mourned you like you were a daughter…but that pain is over now."

Nancy nodded. "I'm sorry we couldn't let you know the truth, Hannah. I will always feel horrible about that."

"Don't, Nancy," Hannah pleaded, looking directly at her. "I'm only concerned about your safety. If keeping me in the dark was one way the FBI had of ensuring your survival, I'd willingly endure it all over again."

"Thank you," Nancy said, smiling through her tears, and they hugged again.

"Nancy," Hannah said distractedly when they let go of each other, "what on earth have you done to your hair?"

"Don't ask," Nancy said with a grimace. "I can't wait to get back to being _me_ again!"

* * *

Early the next afternoon, a taxi turned onto the street that the Drew's home was situated. Frank Hardy sat nervously in the front. In a few minutes, he knew he'd be face-to-face with Nancy. What would happen when they met again?

_We have chemistry_, Frank thought with conviction, remembering the times they had indeed shared more than a platonic hug and perfunctory peck on the cheek. _There was no way Nancy could deny that_.

"Here we are," the taxi driver announced, pulling to an empty space on the street behind a parked car that belonged to a neighbour.

"Great," Joe said enthusiastically. He was about to open his door when Frank said stopped him.

"Wait," he said stiffly.

"What's wrong?" Joe asked, puzzled. Then he looked out of his window and saw what Frank saw.

A young man, probably in his mid-twenties, had just pulled up to the curb and exited his car. Hands shoved in his jacket pockets and his head bent low, he slowly made his way up the walk to the front door of the Drew home.

Then Joe understood. It was Ned Nickerson.

"Take us back," Frank said quietly to the driver.

"What?" Joe and the driver asked in unison.

"I said: _take us back_!" Frank repeated more forcefully.

"Have you lost your mind?" Joe asked angrily. "We were invited to this party. We have a legitimate reason to be here. Did you think Ned wouldn't be invited as well? What's the matter with you, anyway?"

Frank was silent.

"You know what?" Joe continued his tirade. "Don't even bother to answer. It's not like I'm the one in love with Nancy. Why should I want to see her? I'm sure there will be other times we'll see her, since we seem to have a talent for bumping into each other! If you want to leave, leave! I happen to think it's rude to accept an invitation from an old friend and then refuse to show up."

Joe opened his door and stormed out. "A word of advice, bro: unless you let Nancy know how _you_ feel, you'll never know for sure how _she_ feels."

Frank stared ahead, unresponsive, with a stony expression on his face.

"I'll find my own way back to the motel," Joe muttered, and slammed the car door.

Nancy knew each time the doorbell rang that she would be looking expectantly at the door, hoping it would be Ned Nickerson. How good it would feel to be in his arms once again; to gaze into his deep brown eyes. She hoped he'd be as overjoyed to see her as she would be to see him. Their lives had been torn apart by tragic circumstances, but Nancy hoped this reunion would be the time and place where they could start putting their lives back together again.

She was also looking forward to seeing Bess and George. After her father, Hannah, and Ned, she missed that pair of cousins the most. The last time she had seen them was the night everything had started. All those months of having Carson relaying information about everyone over the secure telephone lines had finally ended. At long last, she would be able to 'catch up' with her dear friends in person.

Nancy gazed around the living room for what must have been the hundredth time since arriving. While she had not actually lived in this house since her days in the police academy, and had had her own apartment in Chicago, it definitely felt good to be here, and so many happy memories came bubbling up to the surface.

Over there was the piano; there, in front of her, was the large fireplace. The old clock from her very first case so many years ago, customarily on the mantel, was not there. Nancy had taken that with her to Chicago. She realised it must still be with all her belongings that had been put into storage when she went into hiding.

Last night, of course, she had slept in her old room. The large, four-poster bed was just as comfortable as she remembered it; nothing like the utilitarian beds she'd had in various safe houses, or lumpy ones in the dumpy rented apartments. Her old desk and dressing table were still there, as well as many of the knick-knacks and items from old cases she hadn't the space for when she moved to Chicago.

The ringing of the door chimes made her jump. It was early still: they weren't expecting guests for at least another fifteen minutes.

She dashed to the door and opened it hurriedly; nervously. For a brief moment, she thought the man standing there was Frank Hardy, and was surprised at herself for being quite pleased with the thought he had arrived.

But it wasn't Frank; it was Ned.

"_Ned!_" Every other thought vanished from her mind. She locked her arms around him and pulled him into the house. "Ned, you're here!"

"Hello, Nan," he said lightly, then gently pulled away from her.

Something was not right. There was something in his voice and in his body language that was vaguely upsetting.

"What is it, Ned? What's wrong?"

"Perhaps we'd better go outside," Ned suggested. "I'd like some privacy. Your father and Hannah don't need to hear what I need to tell you."

"Okay, fine," Nancy said uneasily. The two stepped out, and Nancy closed the door quietly behind her.

Joe saw Ned and Nancy leaving the house and hung back, waiting to see where they would go. He didn't want to interrupt anything, and simply stood next to the car belonging to the neighbour. From his vantage point, he was almost positive that it was not a happy reunion between the couple.

_How sad_, Joe thought to himself. _And to think Frank thinks Nickerson is back in the picture._

"I'm so awfully glad to see you, Ned," Nancy said, smiling happily, "I can't tell you how much I missed you while I was in hiding. It killed me inside that you had to believe I was dead."

Ned would not meet her gaze.

"What's the matter?" Nancy said, beginning to despair something was indeed horribly wrong. Ned was simply not reflecting the same emotions of joy and happiness she was experiencing.

"Nan, I _am_ glad to see you; don't think I'm not. I'm – I'm relieved beyond all telling that you're alive. But things – things have changed significantly since we were together."

"'Changed'?" Nancy asked, shaking her head, "what do you mean 'changed'?" Inside, her thoughts screamed: _We still care for each other, don't we? That can't have changed! _

Ned sighed. "I was a real wreck, Nan. I couldn't function. The only way I could was to stop with the fantasies and the wishful thinking, and move ahead."

Nancy couldn't believe what she was hearing. This wasn't what she had imagined their meeting would be like at all. This wasn't the Ned she had left.

"Ned," Nancy said, her voice shaking, an awful realisation dawning on her: "are you breaking up with me? After everything we've been through? I spent the last year of my life running from assassins. You were always in my thoughts, Ned. Thinking of you somehow made everything bearable. Knowing you were still here kept me sane."

"Stop, Nan," Ned pleaded, holding up a hand.

"How could you just give up on me?" Nancy demanded, not caring that she was raising her voice.

"What was I supposed to do, Nan? Spend the rest of my life pining away for a ghost? Live like a monk? You were _dead_, Nancy. I mourned you. I came to terms with losing you. I moved on. You need to do that, too."

"And what did you expect _me_ to do? Ask you to be on the run with me? Put your life at risk, too? Don't think it was an easy decision to make, Ned, because it wasn't," Nancy countered.

"That's not the point, Nan. You didn't even ask me what I wanted. You made that decision for me."

"Oh, please! Ned, you and I both know you would never have agreed to living like that."

"How do you know what I would or would not have wanted?" Ned shot back. "You didn't ask! You just ran off, without even telling me why."

"That's not fair. You know I couldn't tell you. It was too dangerous for you to even know I was still alive."

"Yeah. Right. It was _so_ much better having me agonizing over where you'd vanished to for two months, and then having my heart ripped from my chest at the sight of them pulling your car up out of Lake Michigan!" Ned held an enclosed fist above his left breast, as if holding his heart, an anguished expression on his face. "I'd always…I was always so terrified you'd get hurt or killed while you were out all over the world solving all your stupid mysteries-"

"Exactly. That's one of the main reasons I joined the CPD: so I would be _here_ instead of somewhere else, so there'd be less risk, so we'd be together-"

"I know. I felt great about that decision - and what it meant for _us_ when you made detective on the force, because it meant you wouldn't have to be on the streets as much as a beat cop. But then my worst fear came true _anyway_, and-"

"But Ned, it _didn't-_"

"Let me finish. Fine. I was _convinced_ my worst fear came true. Nan, I let you go. I'm with someone else now."

"Who?" came Nancy's shocked voice, this sudden revelation hitting like a lightning bolt.

"Denise Mason," Ned said uncomfortably.

"Denise Mason," Nancy echoed absently. "The cheerleader from Emerson…" She remembered when she first met the girl. While once visiting Ned during a basketball tournament years ago, international art thieves had schemed to kidnap Denise, but grabbed Nancy by mistake. The two bore an uncanny resemblance, which was the reason for the kidnappers' gaffe.

"I'm rebuilding my life," Ned continued. "And now you waltz right back in, expecting things to be the way they were. I can't do that, Nan. I'm sorry. It wouldn't be fair to you, or to Denise. I wish you had trusted me enough to let me know what was going on. But I can't help but think it just wouldn't have worked out anyway. Maybe it is a good thing – in a perverse way – that all this happened. We really are too different."

"I'm still in love with you, Ned. That never changed. Please, we have to at least try…"

"And risk having it happen again? I'm sorry, Nan. A person can only take so much. I'm with someone now who doesn't have to keep secrets as a matter of course to stay alive."

"You know I never meant to hurt you…" Nancy whispered.

"I know, Nan, and you know I never meant to hurt you, either. Please don't make this harder than it already is."

"Ned…"

"Good-bye, Nan," he said firmly. "Take care of yourself."

The kiss on her cheek was fleeting, sterile. Then he was gone.

She watched him get into his car and drive away. Her feelings of loneliness and desolation were greater now than they had ever been even while under protection. Silent tears spilled down her cheeks, her heart breaking.


	20. Home

Chapter 20.**  
**

She didn't know how she'd get through the remainder of the afternoon and evening.

_I wish we could just call the whole thing off_, she thought miserably.

"Now I know why you couldn't talk about Ned during our conversations for the past few months," Nancy spoke to her father when she re-entered the house.

"I'm sorry," Carson said contritely. "He started coming around less and less. He'd actually been quite ill for a little while after they 'found' your car. The worst part of it is I couldn't tell him the truth. It would certainly have eased his suffering, but it was simply too dangerous – for both of you."

Nancy's face crumpled. "Dad, it just isn't fair. How many lives have been shattered because of that bastard, Gus Marouelli? We've all lost so much…Because of him, innocent people have been hurt and killed…and now Ned will never look at me the same way again. He's not in love with me anymore. I don't know if I can bear it."

"Come here," Carson said gently, holding her and leaning her head against his chest. "Ned is a good man, Nancy, but he's only human. Maybe a relationship with him wasn't meant to be. If that's the case, then the right man for you is still out there. Wherever he is, with your detective skills, I have every confidence you'll find him."

Nancy gave a reluctant nod, but she knew it would be a very long time before this deep heartache subsided.

* * *

Joe watched Ned drive away, leaving Nancy standing alone in the driveway, hugging her arms around herself. _She looks like she wishes the ground would open up and swallow her_, he thought glumly. His eyes followed her back inside the house. He wondered if he ought to head there now or give her a few moments to herself. Just as he was deciding what to do, a large van pulled up to the space his taxi had vacated. He smiled when he recognized the occupants, and waved to them in greeting.

* * *

Somehow, Nancy knew she would have to plaster a smile on her face and greet all her guests that were due to arrive with grace and the appropriate level of charity. Inside, she was empty, bitter and cold.

The one moment she felt a flare of emotion was when Bess and George arrived, soon after Ned had departed. Curiously, Joe Hardy accompanied the pair. His brother, however, was nowhere in sight. She found herself feeling quite disappointed that Frank Hardy had not come.

"It's great to finally see you again, Drew, especially after what happened in New York," Joe said, smiling as he gave her a friendly hug.

"It's good to see you again, too, Joe," Nancy replied, finding that it wasn't too difficult to muster a smile. "Tell Frank I'll be expecting a big gift to make up for his absence."

"Yeah, Frank, uh, sends his apologies," Joe said, somewhat clumsily.

"I hope you can both one day forgive me for my deception; it was the only thing I could do to try to keep you away from danger. Of course I should have known that you would be on the case as soon as you knew something was wrong!"

Joe patted her shoulder. "Don't worry about it. We've been through too much in the past, and something tells me this won't be the last time, either."

"You're a good friend, Joe. Thank you."

Nancy then turned to Bess and George. The sight of her two best friends reduced her to tears again.

"I just _knew_ it," Bess declared, brimming with happiness. Her cheeks were flushed with excitement. She nearly tackled her old friend, wrapping her arms around her. "I _knew_ you couldn't be dead! When everyone else doubted, I held on to the hope you were alive. Nance, welcome back. We've all missed you so very much!"

"I've heard all about your unwavering convictions that I wasn't totally out of commission," Nancy replied affectionately. _If only Ned had held the same unwavering convictions!_

"Hello, George," Nancy said, feeling herself sinking into guilt and self-recrimination upon seeing her friend in the wheelchair. A series of frenzied questions flashed through her mind: _Do I dare tell her what I know about that murderer, Alec Fontaine? What good will it do? Does she blame me? What do I say? _

George smiled broadly. "Get yourself over here, Nan!" she said invitingly, stretching her arms out expectantly.

"Forgive me," Nancy whispered as she knelt in front of her friend and hugged her fiercely. Her eyes were beginning to water again.

George pulled back suddenly. "Don't _ever_ let me hear you say that again," she said forcefully. "You have nothing to be forgiven for. What happened that night was not your fault. We've been friends for a long time, Nancy, and we've been through many things together. When we thought you were dead, suddenly my injury seemed so much less tragic. _I_ could have died, too. But we're both here, and we're both okay. Things could have certainly been much, much worse."

Nancy nodded solemnly. _And I hope you never have to find out just how _much_ worse,_ she thought. She took George's hand in hers. "Thank you for that," she said. "It was a nightmare not knowing how you were all doing, having to hear second-hand what had happened. It's going to take me some time to get used to all the changes."

Bess, George and Joe looked at each other uneasily.

"I think we understand," Bess spoke up, "and we're all here to help you."

Nancy knew some unspoken thought had passed between her three friends, but did not press the matter. Indeed, she acknowledged that deep down inside, she would need the support of everyone if she was going to deal with the repercussions of everything that had taken place over the past year.

* * *

She did manage to keep up with the banter, rehashing for her astonished listeners what her life had been like while in the witness protection program. Her guests eagerly heard about her ex-partner, who was throwing himself at the mercy of the justice system. Tom Morrison was pointing fingers at many key figures in Gus Marouelli's gang, including those who were most likely responsible for the untimely deaths of a few friends and acquaintances. It was with relief that Nancy saw the last of her guests out by late evening. She felt drained and exhausted. She hadn't expected so many visitors and well-wishers. Their endless chatter and happy smiles represented emotions that were the exact opposite of what she was feeling.

George and Bess stayed behind longer than everyone else did, deciding an impromptu sleepover was definitely in order. With a strong fire going in the fireplace, the three old friends gathered in the living room. They'd been sitting in silence, simply enjoying the stillness of the near-empty house, staring into the dancing flames that licked hungrily at the well-seasoned logs.

Nancy broke the calm first: "Ned broke up with me."

It was a statement delivered plainly and simply. Behind it, though, Bess and George knew there was an avalanche of raw emotions still not expressed that would eventually find release in the days and weeks to come.

"We know," Bess replied.

"Saw it coming a mile away," George said, shaking her head.

Nancy was stunned. "What do you mean you _know_?"

"Joe saw you and Ned talking," Bess said. "He knew what he was seeing was not a romantic reunion."

"We pulled up just as Ned drove off," George explained. "Nancy, I have to say that when we thought we lost you, Ned was like an empty shell during the times I was able to see him."

"I don't know if your dad told you, Nance, but a couple months after they found your car, Ned had a nervous breakdown, or something pretty damn near one," Bess said carefully.

"His parents were very worried about him, and so were we," George put in. "I know you don't want to hear it, but now that he's seeing Denise Mason, he's finally returning to normal."

Nancy continued to stare into the flames. George was right. She really didn't want to hear this.

"I know you feel rotten about what happened between you and Ned," Bess spoke, feeling genuinely concerned about her friend.

Nancy did not reply.

"Come on, Nan," Bess said earnestly, "we all know what happened was totally unfair, but you have to admit that Ned is very happy with Denise. If you love him, you have to let him go."

"I know," Nancy spoke at last, very moodily. _But I don't want to._

"That's it!" George said in an exasperated tone. "I can't take it anymore. I can't stand you moping! Pull yourself together, Drew! That's an order."

Nancy turned to look at her friends.

"Thanks for trying to help me out, guys," Nancy said appreciatively. "But I'm going to need a lot of time to get over this. You really can't understand just how betrayed I've been feeling all this time. It was bad enough being betrayed by my partner, Tom. Intellectually, I know that expecting Ned to hope for what was on all accounts the impossible was probably hoping for too much…but he should have _known_, shouldn't he? Instinctively, he should have _known_ I was alive!"

The cousins exchanged glances and turned back to Nancy with concerned looks.

"Forget Ned," George said dismissively. "He doesn't deserve you."

"That was unkind," Nancy said sternly, her blue eyes flashing.

"Whatever," George grumbled. "But I won't stop him if he wants to give up on salvaging your relationship."

"But I still love him," Nancy replied soberly. "If none of this had happened, we'd have gotten married. We'd still be together."

"Nan, Ned's not the only attractive man left on the planet, you know," Bess pointed out.

"I know," Nancy sighed. "But right now he's the only one I want."

"Is that so?" Bess asked. It almost sounded like a challenge.

Nancy didn't know how to respond for a moment.

"Nan, for a 'world famous' detective, I swear sometimes you're clueless!" Bess reproved.

"Yeah, Nancy," George said in agreement.

"What's that supposed to mean!" Nancy retorted hotly, a little more harshly than she intended.

"Oh, please! You know exactly what we mean," Bess said with some amusement, not offended at her friend's outburst in the least.

"You guys, _what?_" Nancy implored.

George and Bess exchanged glances again, this time sly ones.

"Do we _really_ have to spell it out for you?" Bess said with a giggle.

"You mean to tell us there isn't _one_ man out there you're not attracted to..?" George pressed.

"If you guys mean Frank Hardy," Nancy said suspiciously, "you know I'm not the kind of person to get between people already in a relationship."

"Nancy," Bess said patiently, "if _you_ mean Callie Shaw, Joe informed us she's been married for over a year now! And it's _not_ to Frank Hardy!"

* * *

In a well-designed office in downtown Bayport, business was slow for the private investigative firm owned and operated by brothers Frank and Joe Hardy. The lull had caused the younger of the pair to go out on a coffee run, which would inevitably turn into an extended break that would probably include a hearty lunch as well.

Frank Hardy remained, manning the phone and catching up on paperwork. He barely looked up when he heard the outer door open, and light footfalls approaching. It was a young white woman, wearing sunglasses, a light pink blouse and black slacks. She was slim and very attractive. Her hair looked like it had been recently cut short and it was mostly a dark brown. However, the roots were showing, revealing a lovely natural strawberry-blonde shade that would be extremely becoming if allowed to grow.

"Excuse me," the woman said softly, sliding her sunglasses partway down the bridge of her nose, "but I was hoping you could help me find someone…"

Frank stood up hastily, his heart beating quickly at the sight of the young woman who seemed so familiar. "Sure, I think I can help you," he said anxiously.

"Her name is 'Molly Jenkins'," the woman continued, her piercing blue eyes looking up at Frank from under the dark lenses, "although I think she was also going by 'Marie Davenport', ' Dana Farrell' and 'Joan Foster'…but I don't think any of those were her _real_ names…"

Frank strode over to her with hasty steps. He plucked the sunglasses off and took her face in his strong but gentle hands.

"Well," Frank said with a joyous smile, "something tells me we won't have to look too hard, _Nancy Drew._"

Frank pulled Nancy to himself, enfolding her in his hungry arms. She willingly melted into his embrace, savouring the warmth of his touch.

And it felt at last like coming home.

* * *

THE END ?

**A/N: Perhaps I should have put an 'extreme fluff' warning at the beginning of this chapter…**

**I'd like put a shout out to two very special individuals:**

**To my great friend 'SecretScribe' who was subjected to all my rough drafts. Your 'eagle eyes' are invaluable. You saved me from many very embarrassing mistakes. Your insights and suggestions were always spot-on, and this story would not have been what it is had I been without your input. (Now get your butt in gear and write the rest of your LOTR story!) You're the best!**

**To 'katie janeway' : Being able to share the creative process with you has been a terrific experience! Hopefully, our parallel interests will ensure continued successful creative endeavours for both of us. I am very thankful for getting your opinion on the last few chapters of this story before I put them out for public consumption. (Wait 'til they get a load of what we have in store for this fandom…) Muahhaahahaa! **

**To ALL my dear, dear readers and reviewers: I don't quite know how to express my thanks to the terrific support I received throughout this whole process of writing a Hardy Boys/Nancy Drew mystery. I couldn't even begin to thank all of you as individuals as I once tried to do – the number of reviews and reviewers is simply too overwhelming. All the bumps aside, I've enjoyed the ride very much, and I hope you all did, too. Please see 'What Child is This?', sequel to 'Who's That Girl?' if you'd like to read more of this 'universe'.**

**Sincerely,**

**TesubCalle**


	21. Epilogue

**AN: Here's a little treat for all of you who are suffering withdrawal symptoms: A couple 'deleted scenes' – things that I considered for the plot but ultimately rejected for creative reasons. One can always argue for and against the inclusion of certain scenes (as well all see in things like movie DVD 'extras'), so the following are just some things I figured you'd want to read just for fun.**

**Scenes that did not make the cut: You'll recognize this scene from the night Nancy makes it back to Chicago. I'd initially planned on Nancy and the Hardys having a reunion right there, but amended it so that they had to wait a bit longer to see her again.**

**The set up: As soon as Nancy is done greeting her colleagues from the Department after arresting her partner Tom Morrison, the Hardys take that opportunity to talk to her, unlike what actually happened when Frank decided to wait...**

"Ever since that night in New York, we've spent practically every waking moment trying to find out what happened to you," Frank said, trying to still the pounding of his heart. "We came to Chicago, looking for answers."

Nancy looked away. "I was so afraid that night," she said, her voice catching in her throat. "I knew you'd want to know why I was pretending to be a waitress named 'Molly'. So many people were hurt or killed because of me…I didn't want the same thing to happen to you two."

"I don't think you have to worry about that anymore," Frank said heartily. "What you did tonight…that was amazing."

"Thanks," Nancy replied with a smile. "I'm just utterly relieved it's all over. Having to set up a sting for my own partner…It wasn't easy."

"That's why you had to run, isn't it?" Frank asked. "You suspected that he'd killed Dr. Gray because she found out about what Dr. Stanely Vasek was doing, right?"

Nancy nodded solemnly. "Debra was worried about something the day before she was killed. We know now that she must have confided in Tom. She must have told him that she thought Dr. Vasek was on the take. It would only been a matter of time before she found out Tom was the arresting officer. She would have realised he was being bribed by Gus Marouelli, as well.

Tom obviously decided he couldn't let her live with that knowledge. I'm pretty sure he must have killed her that morning before he left for work. He tried to cover up her death to make it look like the work of the serial killer."

"And of course he had inside knowledge on how the serial killer operated," Frank breathed.

"Right," Nancy said. "But one thing nagged at me about that morning when I had a chance to think about it: when we arrived on the scene, Tom turned the thermostat up, and kept insisting that Deb must have been on her way out because it had been lowered, and that the house was freezing."

Joe snapped his fingers. "Which would have lowered her body temperature more rapidly, making it difficult to establish time of death!"

"Exactly," Nancy said.

Sergeant Mahoney called out to her. "Hey, Drew, we gotta roll! I know you can't wait to book your 'prisoner'!"

"I'll be right there," she called back. "Seems we're going to have to cut this short for now," Nancy said ruefully. "Frank; Joe, how do I thank you for putting your lives on the line for me?"

Before either could protest, Nancy said, "I know, I know – 'think nothing of it, I would have done the same for you,' right?"

"Right," Joe nodded with a grin.

"Absolutely," said Frank. A lump was forming in his throat.

"Well, I'll see you too later! After we're through processing Tom, I think I'm going to sleep for a month!"

Frank stared after her as she dashed off to join Sergeant Mahoney in the van.

That short farewell was so anti-climactic and disappointing! Joe put a supporting hand on his brother's shoulder. Frank wanted to shake it off in irritation, but knew the gesture meant Joe understood what he was feeling.

"Let's go, Frank," Joe said gently, "we're done here."

Frank wanted to linger behind, but knew that his brother was right. The van started up and slowly began to move off. Something inside Frank made him want to run after it, to tell Nancy he was here, that he was glad she was safe, and that he felt a little more than a simple crush for her, but he held back.

"Hey, Hardys," the driver of the surveillance vehicle called out to them. "We're moving. We're expected back at the station pronto."

"Okay, we're coming," Joe called back.

The Hardys were in mid-turn when the armoured police van exploded!

**So you can probably see why I chose not to include this! Perhaps some of you think otherwise. Either way, I'm having fun sharing it.**

**Alternate ending: Here is an 'extended' scene I wrote after writing the original ending. The ending you all know is my original concept and I like it the best. The one here was written for kicks and is only _slightly_ different. I make no claims to be a romance writer, and from this scene, you can all be the judge of that. I did not use it because I thought it was just too much for the characters at that early stage in their relationship. (But I'm just posting it for your enjoyment!)**

"Excuse me," the woman said softly, sliding her sunglasses partway down the bridge of her nose, "but I was hoping you could help me find someone…"

Frank stood up hastily, his heart beating quickly at the sight of the young woman who seemed so familiar. "Sure, I think I can help you," he said anxiously.

"Her name is 'Molly Jenkins'," the woman continued, her piercing blue eyes looking up at Frank from under the dark lenses, "although I think she was also going by 'Marie Davenport', ' Dana Farrell', and 'Joan Foster'…but I don't think any of those were her _real_ names…"

Frank strode over to her with hasty steps. He plucked the sunglasses off and took her face in his strong but gentle hands.

"Well," Frank said with a joyous smile, "something tells me we won't have to look too hard, _Nancy Drew._"

Frank brought her lips to his and they kissed, deeply, tenderly.

"I've wanted to do that for a very long time," he whispered softly to her when they at last separated.

"So have I," Nancy whispered back, "even though it took me a very long time to admit it."

Then Frank pulled Nancy back to him again, enfolding her in his hungry arms. She willingly melted into his embrace, savouring the warmth of his touch.

And it felt at last like coming home.

**A/N: So there you have it! The whole nine yards. One final note: Some of you have expressed that it was slightly confusing with all the names I had that began with 'M' – because it was difficult keeping them all straight. True enough. It is confusing, and I apologize. It was a mean trick on my part. Because I wanted it to be a challenge to spot the good guys from the bad guys, I used that tactic to make it so that one had to _really_ pay attention to which character was which. (Of course, that only ended up muddling things up more than they needed to be!) I'll keep that in mind for future stories…**

**Wait…I didn't just say 'future stories', did I? Oh, dear.**

**Once again, thank you all! You made this author feel extremely welcome and appreciated. I simply cannot express that enough. My heart is warmed by your positive comments and loyalty. I just may come back for more if you're going to be this receptive to what I write.**


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